


Draconis (For the Dragon)

by baratron



Category: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Loyalty, M/M, Magic, Magical Artifacts, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2017-12-21 04:59:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 49,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/896073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baratron/pseuds/baratron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alix de Feu was a Journeyman of the Mages Guild when he was thrown into prison by a corrupt guard. His life was turned upside down one night when the Emperor of Tamriel appeared outside his cell, saying that assassins had killed his sons, and he would be next. It turned out that his escape route from the Imperial Palace went through Alix's cell. Emperor Uriel Septim VII told Alix about his prophetic dreams and handed him the Amulet of Kings, to give to his secret, illegitimate son.</p><p>Brother Martin Draconis was a Priest of Akatosh in the city of Kvatch when it was destroyed by daedra belonging to Mehrunes Dagon, the evil Daedric Prince. Sheltering in what remained of the Chapel, he was horrified to discover that he was the Emperor's son - and now the last remaining heir to the throne. With his faith in the Nine Divines shattered, Martin has to follow Alix across Cyrodiil to safety; then recover from his trauma in time to save the world. For the Emperor of Tamriel isn't just a symbolic ruler: his magic seals a covenant with the gods which prevents the mortal plane of Mundus from merging with the immortal plane of Oblivion...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Andre,

This manuscript is for you, my beloved nephew and child of my heart. As you know, I am dying; not that I mind too much, since I will be going to join my beloved Martin in Aetherius. But it means this is my last chance to tell our story right from the beginning, warts and all. Well, not that there _are_ any warts, not physically, anyway. There are, no doubt, quite a few emotional ones.

Look: I am ill, and concentration is hard to find. This won't have the clarity of any of the manuscripts I've produced for my books of magic or letters to the Mages Guild. If you wish to get it published, you will have to work your own magic in turning this ramble into polite Cyrodiilic, worthy of the Arch-Mage and Champion of Cyrodiil (and all of the other titles I hold). I know you've managed it before, but never with a work of this length or incoherence. 

Still, it should be easy enough to persuade someone to publish this as a book, even now – _especially_ now that the Empire finally has a new ruler. People elsewhere in Tamriel may already have forgotten Martin, but no one in the Imperial City ever could. Not with his statue standing in the ruined Temple of the One. If nothing else, Phintias in First Edition still thinks kindly of both Martin and myself (well, we've certainly spent enough money there over the years!). Failing that, you could sell it to a publisher with a back cover blurb like this:

> The autobiography that Tamriel has been waiting for! Twenty years after the Oblivion Crisis, legendary hero Alix de Feu – Hero of Kvatch, Saviour of Bruma, Champion of Cyrodiil, Arch-Mage _and_ member of the Elder Council – writes about his friendship with our late and much-beloved Emperor Martin Septim, the last Dragonborn! Many books have already been written about this bleak period in Tamriel's history, but this is the **exclusive** story that only Martin's best friend and lover ever knew!
> 
> HEAR the truth about how Alix ended up in prison! LEARN of Martin's angst to discover he was the bastard heir of Emperor Uriel Septim VII, and last of the Septim line! READ of the trials and tribulations of Alix, Martin, and the Blades as they fought against evil! LISTEN to Alix and Martin's conversations, repeated here very nearly verbatim! DISCOVER who these legendary heroes gained comfort from during the Crisis! WORSHIP our mighty lord Akatosh and the Nine Divines, who brought them together to save Mundus itself!

...I think my pain potion just kicked in. Willow bark and poppy seed, it makes me a little loopy. Apologies.

I'm going to leave in the smutty parts since I know you'll enjoy them, but those are absolutely _not for publication_. I would never sully Martin's memory in the minds of those who think men of our persuasion are disgusting. Though I am happy for them to remain in the family archives, where my grand-nephews and great-grand-nephews can find them, and enjoy some private time thinking of us. If you want, you could even change all the names and publish them as erotic fiction. Just don't link them to Martin, please.

More seriously, there should be a dedication near the beginning. Something along the lines of: _To Martin, my dearest friend, who always loved books – and without whom none of us would be alive to read this._ I think that's right.

I'm falling asleep over my table, and any moment now you'll come in to help me to bed. I shall hide this for now. I know you think I should be using my last scraps of energy to keep the Mages Guild running, but honestly - _sod_ the Mages Guild. All the signs suggest it will split apart after my death, into two factions or more. Already there are mages experimenting with necromancy again, despite my reinforcement of Arch-Mage Traven's prohibition against it. I have barely the strength to put pen to paper, let alone to ride around the country to stop them. Ordinary people blame “magic users” for the Oblivion Crisis, when the real problem was Daedra worshippers. It was “magic users” who _saved_ Mundus from the Oblivion Crisis, for gods' sakes! Martin and I were both mages...

The Empire is far more valuable than the doomed Mages Guild. I have seen terrible times ahead, and only hope that they are fever dreams rather than portents of things to come. Getting our story out there is the most important thing you could do for the Empire. I only regret that I left it so late.

Your uncle,   
Alix.


	2. A corrupt Imperial Guard Captain.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alix is thrown into prison and meets the Emperor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it seems that because I've started with a Prologue, all of my chapter numbers will be adrift by one. If anyone knows how to get a Chapter Zero on Ao3, do let me know!

It was late summer in the year 3E 433, a few days before the festival of Harvest's End: the time when farmers celebrated the end of the year's work. As a Breton from High Rock, used to summer months of plenty followed by winter months of rationing, it was particularly meaningful to me. Yet it was entirely irrelevant in the Imperial City where I was living, since much the same food was available in the capital all year round.

I'd left my family home seven years earlier, and travelled halfway across the continent to the Arcane University in Cyrodiil. Showing talent with magic from an early age, I had inherited my family's affinity for Fire, and could cast a basic Flare spell before I'd even learnt to read. I say this not to boast, but to explain how it was possible that, at the age of twenty-six, I was already a Journeyman of the Mages Guild, a research student developing new advanced spells. Of course, my other abilities lagged behind, in particular my physical fighting skills. I was able to handle a sword, but entirely uncomfortable with a shield made of metal instead of magic.

I was a fairly typical young Breton mage in many respects. Skin pale enough that I sunburned easily, with slightly pointed ears and high cheekbones that betrayed elven heritage rather more recent than usual for my race. Slender and small-framed, so short and pretty that if you put me in a dress, I could easily pass for a girl – albeit a rather underfed one. My light brown eyes still seemed too big for my face, and combined with my overlong Mages Guild robe to make me look rather waifish. All in all, I was the sort of young man who looked entirely harmless and ineffectual. Though I would never have expected it, my naïve appearance was the catalyst for the chain of events that led to my destiny.

While the Harvest's End festival was of little importance in the Imperial City, my family always sent me some money with which to celebrate. Since the Mages Guild provided food and lodging for its students, I needed little money to survive – which was just as well, since my studies kept me too busy for any part-time job. Thus I spent my gift not on mead and ale as other boys might, but on Daedra hearts and daedroth teeth. In retrospect, I laugh at the irony – if only I had known _then_ that soon, the world would be overrun with daedra for me to collect ingredients from!

Investing all my money in magical items, specialist equipment, and rare alchemy reagents proved imprudent when I happened to come into contact with a corrupt Imperial Guard Captain, by the name of Audens Avidius. Upon leaving the Mystic Emporium, he grabbed me by the collar and accused me of theft. Obviously, I protested my innocence, being both a regular customer of Calindil _and_ armed with a receipt; but he demanded a fine of fifty gold pieces nonetheless. (Months later, I would learn that he regularly supplemented his income by extorting money from poor unfortunates who seemed too weak or cowed by authority to fight back.)

Of course, I could not pay, since I had just spent all my septims on potion ingredients. In a panic, I begged to be allowed to return to the University, where I was sure I could scrape together the coins from my friends. But the perfidious Captain did not want me to go back to my University, where I could report his actions to senior members of the Mages Guild. Instead, angered by his inability to extract money from me, he threw me into jail. Over the years I've heard many interesting suggestions as to why I was locked in the Imperial City Prison: from my being a petty crook, or a necromancer, to a high-ranking member of the Dark Brotherhood! The truth is considerably more prosaic. I was framed.

I cannot find the words to describe what a terrible thing it was to be in prison, knowing that I was completely innocent of any crime. I was stripped of my clothes and precious reagents, handcuffed, and thrown into a cell wearing only scratchy sack cloth. At least, as a mage, I was not entirely helpless. I still had the ability to cast spells, and my own considerable magicka reserves to draw upon.

Avidius did not bother to tell me for how long I'd be imprisoned, and the prison guards simply laughed when I tried to ask. Increasingly anxious, I desperately racked my brain for ways to escape. I knew Chameleon and Invisibility spells, useful for sneaking out of the prison unseen, but could see no use for them unless I could get through the cell door. I knew Lockpicking spells, but none strong enough for that particular lock. I knew Telekinesis spells, but not how to teleport _myself_. However, over the next few days I tried everything I could possibly think of until the impatient guards, frustrated with my magery, moved me into an abandoned part of the prison.

This was how I became entangled in the lives of the Septims. On that fateful day when the Mythic Dawn assassins came for Emperor Uriel Septim VII, my prison cell proved to be part of the secret escape route from the White-Gold Tower to the world outside. It was there in that cell where I met Emperor Uriel as he tried to flee from death, and he told me that he'd seen me in his dreams. He handed me the Amulet of Kings to give to his last remaining, illegitimate, son, who had no idea who his true father was. With each of his other three sons killed, that man – Martin - would be the next Emperor of Tamriel. The gods move in mysterious ways!

I shall not repeat again what Emperor Uriel said to me, though his words remain engraved upon my heart. Many books have been written about this bleak period in Tamriel's history already, and I have no intention of repeating material which you can read elsewhere. Nor do I wish to describe how he died. It was... unjust, for such a great and noble man to be cut down like a common bandit by the Mythic Dawn. Even after all this time, I have never been certain whether the Emperor did not fight his death because he knew it was destined to happen, or because he was old and exhausted.

Instead, I wish to tell the story that only those who were close to Martin and I ever knew. Over the past two decades, many people have asked me about my friendship with the late Emperor; but I have never answered. Partly so as to avoid placing myself above the rest of the Elder Council. Partly to preserve his memory as a hero through the dark times, when the Ruby Throne stood empty. Mostly because of my love for him. But now, by the grace of the Nine, our Emperor Titus Mede has ascended to the Ruby Throne, and Tamriel is truly an Empire again. It is time.

* * *

Having escaped from the Imperial City Prison through the sewers, I returned to the Arcane University as quickly as possible, not caring whether or not I was seen by Imperial Guards. Had I not been told by the Emperor himself that my “crimes” would be pardoned? I was doing the work of the Nine now, and no mortal man could stop me. Of course, I must have been at least somewhat in shock, given that I was walking around in rusty iron armour with the Amulet of Kings stuffed in my pocket; and if I _had_ been stopped, I would probably have been executed on the spot, without even the chance to plead my case.

I went to my quarters, where my friends and fellow students fell upon me with concerned questions about where I'd been; and not least of all about how I was dressed. I was dreadfully dirty and smelly, with rat and goblin blood splashed over my armour – which was unusual clothing in itself. Most mages eschew armour altogether, since metal impedes the flow of magicka, which interferes with spell casting. Certainly, only battlemages and spellswords like to wear heavy armour, and you would never mistake me for either of those. Short even for a Breton, slim, and lightly-built – moving in iron armour would have been impossible without my Fortify Strength and Feather spells. It was too heavy, cumbersome, and unyielding. The only reason I'd put it on was that I found it abandoned in the sewers, and it was certainly better than my itchy prison rags.

The Emperor had told me to take the Amulet of Kings to a man named Jauffre. Baurus, the Redguard soldier who was the only one of the Emperor's bodyguards to survive, explained “He's the Grandmaster of the Blades. As the eyes and ears of the Emperor, the Blades don't advertise themselves. We of the Imperial Bodyguard are the public face of the Blades, but most of my brothers serve the Emperor quietly, behind the scenes. You'll find Grandmaster Jauffre at Weynon Priory, living as a simple monk.”

As the sort of research mage who travelled around to visit other branches of the Mages Guild and learn from other people's expertise, I knew that Weynon Priory was near Chorrol, a few hours away from the Imperial City. I could walk there in an afternoon, although walking back again the same day might be asking too much. I explained to my friends how I'd been imprisoned unfairly, and suggested that they should tell Raminus Polus, the Master-Wizard who was Dean of Students: not least to warn other students of the scam being perpetuated. Aware of the profound surreality of the last few hours, I said nothing about meeting the Emperor or the Blades. I merely explained that I needed to go to Chorrol for personal reasons, on short notice, and that I hoped to be gone no more than a day.

I remember wondering how to strip off. Not because I was especially body conscious – as a typical student, I'd slept with several of my friends in that room anyway – but because of the Amulet. I could feel its raw power even through a layer of clothing. The obvious thing to do: to wear it around my own neck, hidden inside my clothes, wouldn't work because of the enchantment upon it. The Emperor had described it as “the Empire's sacred emblem of rulership”, so I guessed that it could only be worn by a member of the Septim bloodline, perhaps only by the Emperor chosen by the gods. For all I knew, maybe sons found out which of them was to become the next Emperor based on which of them could wear the Amulet? I really didn't know much about Tamrielic history.

So I carefully removed the rusty iron cuirass, sagging slightly as I dropped that awful weight on the bed, and pulled a spare Guild robe out from my chest. As I collected everything I might need for the trip, I kept on the dreadfully heavy iron greaves and the shortsword tethered to them. I started to pack a bag with some food, potions, my cloak (even though it was summer), and spare underwear (since my mother always told me to have some). I grabbed a towel and went down to the washroom. There, I carefully wrapped the Amulet in my cloak, and stashed it away at the bottom of my bag. I washed off the grit and grime of the prison and sewer, dried myself off, and combed my hair out to dry. Dressing finally in my own robe, I felt like myself again, and could hardly believe what had happened over the past few days. The weight of the Amulet in my bag seemed scarcely enough to make any difference, yet I could feel it pressing against my conscience and consciousness. Still, the strangeness would be over soon, and then I'd be back to my normal life. Or so I thought.

Entirely lacking in money, I'd had to borrow some from my friends. I wasn't sure what I'd need money _for_ , but hated walking around with an empty purse. I also gathered up the rusty armour and the cheap weapons that I'd picked up, and took them to the market to sell; everything except the steel shortsword. Without much strength, I wasn't the greatest bladesman in the world, but its bulk was reassuring at my side. If something terrible happened and I ran completely out of magicka, I would have _some_ protection. I hoped.


	3. "It will be safest here with me."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alix takes the Amulet of Kings to Weynon Priory, meets Jauffre, and gains a horse.

There is little to say about my journey to Weynon Priory. It was a beautiful day, sunny and bright. I walked briskly, but took time to gather flowers and herbs for potion-making later. It would be impossible to replace the expensive reagents that were now locked up somewhere in the Imperial City Prison, but even common plants were worth one septim each; or more if made into a potion. I saw a few animals, and easily scared them away. Just outside the ruined Fort Ash, a Khajiit highwayman offered to take a hundred septims off me in exchange for my life. I offered to set his fur coat on fire; and did so, after he came running towards me swinging a great battleaxe. He ran away howling towards Lake Rumare, furry tail lit up like a torch.

I'd been past Weynon Priory at least a dozen times in the past, but never had any reason to visit it. I knew it had a main house and a chapel, set around a not unattractive courtyard, with a well in the middle. Lots of interesting mushrooms grew around that area, and I always collected as many of them as I possibly could. This time, however, I needed to venture inside.

As I approached the house, a Dunmer came towards me. Dressed in blacksmith's clothes, with his hair in a messy ponytail, I thought it was unlikely that he was a monk. He _did_ , however, seem to be a resident. Like most humans, I was bad at guessing the age of elves; though his greenish-grey skin was wrinkled, suggesting that he was old even by Mer standards. Probably older than my most ancient senior relative then. I should afford him respect.

“Hello,” he said, “I'm the shepherd here. Eronor's the name.”

“Hello,” I replied, surprised by his lack of formality. “My name is Alix. I'm looking for Jauffre?”

The elf smiled, amusement reaching his red eyes. “If he's not sleeping or eating, he'll be fussing with his books, I reckon, over in the Priory House.” I assumed that Jauffre must spend a lot of time reading. Good. Perhaps we'd get on well.

I knocked on the door of the main house and entered. A Breton priest, perhaps in his fifties, stood up from the table and approached me. He was wearing a long black robe, with his brown hair cut into a monk's tonsure. Was this Jauffre?

“Yes, can I help you?” he said, in a rather disdainful tone. He didn't bother to introduce himself.

“I must speak to Jauffre on urgent private business,” I told him.

The monk waved a hand in the direction of the staircase. “He's upstairs. Go ahead.” He watched me suspiciously as I walked away, then returned to reading the newspaper. It looked like today's _Black Horse Courier_ , and I was certain it would contain the story of the Emperor's assassination.

The staircase rose for half a storey, then split in the middle. The left-hand fork continued upwards to what looked like a bedroom, the right-hand to a room with bookcases and desks. This seemed more likely the place where a person might “fuss with books”. I turned right, then right again. In front of me was a large desk, seated at which was another Breton priest. He seemed rather elderly, his grey hair completely bald on top, and dressed in a simple monk's robe; though, incongruously, a sword hung at his side. I recognised it as the Akaviri katana of the Blades.

The monk was engrossed in a book. I went up to him and said, “Hello?”

He also seemed rather annoyed. Why were these men so grumpy? “I'm Brother Jauffre. What do you want?”

Well, how could I respond to that? Instead of any of the pleasantries I might usually exchange, I simply stated, “I was told to bring you the Amulet of Kings.”

The man's eyes widened. “This cannot be. No one but the Emperor is permitted to handle the Amulet. Let me see it.”

I opened my bag, rummaged for my cloak, then carefully unfolded it. Jauffre's hand was on the hilt of his sword the whole time. I decided not to be offended as I pulled out the Amulet of Kings, and handed it to him.

He examined the pendant for a few moments, perhaps as long as half a minute; holding the large ruby gem in the centre up to the sunlight that streamed in through the window. Then he exclaimed, “By the Nine! This _is_ the Amulet of Kings! Who are you? How did you get this? What do you know of the Emperor's death?”

I sighed. “My name is Alix de Feu. I was stuck in the Imperial Prison courtesy of a corrupt guard. The Emperor appeared outside my cell last night, with three Blades guards. He said that assassins had killed his sons, and he was next on their list. Turns out his escape route from the Imperial Palace went through my cell. Captain Renault said it was 'a secret passage known only to the Blades'. The Emperor kept talking about his dreams, and the stars, and the Nine Divines. He basically _told_ me to follow him.” I needed to get that clear. I'd followed on the Emperor's instruction, against the will of his bodyguards. “There were many assassins in hooded, blood-red robes who cast Bound Armour spells and fought with Daedric maces. When the Blades were completely outnumbered, the Emperor declared he could go no further, gave me the Amulet and told me to bring it to you. He said he had a secret son, and only you know where to find him.”

The surprised expression on Jauffre's face faded as my story unfolded, and when I finished speaking he nodded, outwardly calm again. “As unlikely as your story sounds, I believe you. Only the strange destiny of Uriel Septim could have brought you to me carrying the Amulet of Kings. What else can you tell me?”

I scratched my ear, thoughtfully, before reciting everything I could remember of the Emperor's words. Then I added, “He didn't even _try_ to fight! It was as if he'd decided there was no point fighting – he was going to die, and that was it. Um... The assassins killed Captain Renault and Glenroy, but Baurus survived. He told me where to find you, and that you were in charge of the Blades.”

“Yes, Baurus told you right. I am the Grandmaster of the Blades. We serve the Emperor and the Septim bloodline. Talos is our patron. You wonder to find me here? Discretion is our watchword. Only a few of us have the honor to serve publicly in the Imperial Guard.”

“Actually I knew you were a Blade from your sword.” I pointed to it. “I'd never seen a katana like that before yesterday, but all three of the Blades had one.”

Jauffre considered this, before looking directly at me with curiosity in his eyes, “What is it that you do?”

“I'm a Journeyman of the Mages Guild.” Given that I was standing there wearing a Mages Guild robe, then I was either a mage or a particularly convincing liar.

“A mage with some experience, then?”

“Seven years at the Arcane University, and I was taught by my family before that.”

The monk stroked his chin. “Prove it.”

 _What?_ I had absolutely no idea what he was asking, or why; but I duly cast Chameleon to blend perfectly into the background, then Telekinesis to make the book he was reading do a little dance across the desk. I couldn't see anything that was safe to set on fire, so I cast Frost Bolt to form an icy patch on the floor, then Blazing Spear on top to melt it. As the puddle of water spread over the wooden surface, two monks rushed upstairs: the middle-aged Breton that I'd seen before, and an Imperial scarcely older than myself. They peered at Jauffre urgently from the staircase. He waved to them, somewhat languidly, before explaining, “This young man is on a mission for the Blades.”

He turned to me. “So you're able to protect yourself, then? Good.” He waited for the other two monks to descend down the stairs before explaining, “I am one of the few who know of the existence of Emperor Uriel's last son. Many years ago, I served as captain of Uriel's bodyguards. One night he called me in to his private chambers. A baby boy lay sleeping in a basket. Uriel told me to deliver him somewhere safe. He never told me anything else about the baby, but I knew it was his son. From time to time he would ask about the child's progress. Now, it seems that this illegitimate son is the heir to the Septim Throne. If he yet lives.”

This was all very interesting, but why was he telling me?

Jauffre went on, “His name is Martin. He serves Akatosh in the Chapel in the city of Kvatch, south of here. He doesn't know that he is Uriel Septim's son. If the enemy is aware of his existence, as seems likely, he is in terrible danger. You must find him in Kvatch and bring him safely back here.”

I was utterly shocked to hear these words. Why should the Grandmaster of the Blades – the Emperor's own bodyguards – need _me_ , a mere Journeyman mage, to go and rescue the heir to the throne? I needed to get back to the Imperial City and my studies. Hadn't I discharged my duty to the late Emperor Uriel? “What, _me_?” I almost yelled. “What makes you think _I_ have any talent whatsoever? Don't you have Blades for this sort of job?”

The monk looked concerned. “It is possible that our enemies already recognise the men of the Imperial Guard. Their presence would immediately mark out Martin as the heir, even if they disguised their clothing. Many of the other Blades are not soldiers, but spies. They might compromise their positions if they suddenly left their hometowns. You are completely unknown, which makes you perfect for the task. You'll be able to travel more quickly alone.”

“How do you know you can trust me? How do you know _I_ 'm not working with the assassins?” I might have sounded hysterical.

“The Emperor trusted you, and you brought the Amulet of Kings to me,” Jauffre said, simply. Oh, _Oblivion_!

“Then I need more information,” I heard myself saying. “Who is the Prince of Destruction?” Surely not a _Daedric_ Prince? Life was complicated enough as a servant of the Nine Divines, our holy Aedric gods, without getting involved with the unholy Daedric gods-or-demons as well.

“The Prince of Destruction he referred to is none other than Mehrunes Dagon, one of the lords of the demonic world of Oblivion.” Damn. Not only a Daedric Prince, but one considered _wholly_ evil, associated with bloodshed and disaster. “The Emperor's words - 'Close shut the jaws of Oblivion' - certainly suggest that he perceived some threat from Oblivion. But all the scholars agree that the mortal world is protected from the daedra of Oblivion by magical barriers.”

I had to agree with the scholars too. As a mage, I had been taught about the magical barriers separating Mundus, the everyday world of mortals, from Oblivion, the realms of the Daedric Princes. I'd also experienced them directly in Conjuration classes, when attempting to summon creatures from Oblivion to do my bidding. Conjuration was the one school of magic that I had very little talent in, partly because it creeped me out. I wondered how you could ever be sure that the demonic creatures you summoned wouldn't simply turn on you. Without that trust, it was impossible to summon larger or more powerful creatures.

I shrugged. “How can Oblivion threaten us, then?”

“I'm not sure.” He thought for a while. “The Amulet of Kings is ancient. Saint Alessia herself received it from the gods. It is a holy relic of great power. When an Emperor is crowned, he uses the Amulet to light the Dragonfires at the Temple of the One in the Imperial City. With the Emperor dead and no new heir crowned, the Dragonfires in the Temple will be dark, for the first time in centuries. It may be that the Dragonfires protected us from a threat that only the Emperor was aware of.”

I knew where the Temple of the One was, but... _Dragonfires?_ Never heard of those in my life. I wasn't exactly sure who Saint Alessia was either. Some figure in Cyrodiilic history, who wasn't overly important to me as a Breton from High Rock. My face must have looked completely blank, since Jauffre sighed. “Never mind.”

“Should I take the Amulet of Kings with me, so Martin can put it on right away?”

Jauffre shook his head. “It will be safest here with me. When you return with Martin, we will figure out our next move. And please, let me know if there's anything you need. My resources here are limited, but I will help in any way I can.”

I needed lots of things. Most importantly, some way to travel more quickly, since my feet were already hurting from walking to Weynon Priory, and then standing around for fifteen minutes. There weren't a lot of options.

“What can you spare me?” I asked.

The Grandmaster rose from his chair, walked over to a wooden chest at the end of a row of bookshelves, and unlocked it. “I keep a few things here in my chest to resupply travelling Blades. Help yourself to whatever you need. Prior Maborel may also be able to help. You should speak to him about it if you haven't already.”

* * *

Jauffre went downstairs to talk to the other monks while I examined the chest. It contained various weapons, potions, and scrolls, along with several sets of both leather and iron armour. I acquired the leather armour closest to my size, thinking it might come in handy, as well as potions of both Restore Health and Restore Magicka. I saw no point whatsoever in weighing myself down with heavy iron armour, or any more weapons. If my mage powers and steel shortsword weren't good enough, I'd likely be dead in any case.

As I clattered down the stairs, the youngest monk approached me. “Welcome, good citizen. I'm Brother Piner. You go into danger. Jauffre didn't tell us any more than that, but know that our prayers go with you.”

I nodded. “Thank you.”

“Here. Perhaps you will find this useful. One of the books I saved from my Blades training.” He handed me a book of Imperial history.

I'm a mage. We _like_ books, almost by definition. But I wasn't sure how much use a thick history book would be in my quest across-country to find the Emperor's last son. Nonetheless, I thanked him gravely, and he smiled at me.

The middle-aged Breton now introduced himself as Prior Maborel. “I know that you are on an important mission for the Blades. Please, if you need a horse, take mine from the Priory stables. I rarely travel, so I’m sure you will put her to better use than I.”

“Thank you,” I said, oddly touched. Riding wasn't my favourite mode of transport due to the inevitable chafing, but it was much more convenient than walking considering the distance I'd need to travel. At least I had picked up some padded leather trousers to protect my legs.

“Weynon Priory is a chapterhouse of the Order of Talos. Tiber Septim is the god and patron saint of our order. And now his dynasty has come to an end. It's very painful. I was just here reading the _Black Horse Courier_ about the assassination. Uriel was an old man... a good man, and a good emperor. Why would anyone want to kill him? And all his sons?”

I realised belatedly that what I'd read as grumpiness or disdain was actually grief, and felt bad about the bratty way I had behaved. “May I see that newspaper?” I asked. Prior Maborel handed it to me.

The article began: _Emperor Uriel Septim VII is dead, at the age of 87, having ruled Tamriel for 65 years. He was killed by assassins unknown. At the same time, in separate locations, the late emperor's three sons and heirs [Crown Prince Geldall, 56; Prince Enman, 55; Prince Ebel, 53] were slain by other assassins._

“Damn,” I swore. So it was true. When the Emperor had asked whether his sons were dead, Captain Renault had told him that they didn't know, since the message only said they'd been attacked. But the Emperor had replied, telling her he was certain that they were dead. I wondered again about the degree of psychic power the late Emperor seemed to have. Dreams, stars, and gods... knowing that his sons were dead, knowing the hour of his own death... I also wondered why none of the Emperor's legitimate sons had apparently had any children; why it was left to an illegitimate son _who didn't even know he was of royal blood_ to carry on the succession.

Jauffre cornered me on my way out. “Your first priority now should be to find Martin and bring him back here. Waste no time. You _must_ find Martin before the enemy does.”

I nodded. Prior Maborel looked up from his papers. “Go with Talos's blessings. Do not fail.”

I walked outside to the privy behind Weynon House, used it, washed my hands, put on the leather greaves under my Mages Guild robe, and took the painted mare from the stable. Swinging myself up into the saddle, I set a course south.


	4. Brains, Flames, and Sneakiness.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alix rides to Kvatch and discovers that the city has been destroyed.

I decided not to take the main road to Kvatch. Let me explain for my readers from other parts of the Empire, who might be unfamiliar with the road map of Cyrodiil. There is a direct route from the Imperial City to each of the major cities, but there are few roads _between_ cities. Taking the main road would mean riding southeast along the Black Road almost all the way to the Imperial City, then around the Ring Road, and finally southwest along the Gold Road – almost doubling the distance from the direct route. Jauffre had suggested strongly that Martin would be in danger, and that time was of the essence.

Instead, I opted to ride almost due south through the countryside from Weynon Priory to Skingrad, and pick up the Gold Road there. Whereas this could increase my chances of meeting hostile wildlife, I knew that most wolves and bears slept during the day, and it was really only trolls that I needed to worry about. It had only taken me a few minutes of riding to work out that Prior Maborel's horse had quite a turn of speed, and I knew well that trolls would run away from the slightest hint of Fire magic. It had been a few years since my cohort at Arcane University had been dragged to a troll-infested cave for Destruction magic training, but those lessons were not easily forgotten.

I rode around the unpleasant village of Hackdirt, where the inhabitants hated outsiders, and to my friends' farm of Weatherleah; but neither of the Jemane brothers was in residence. I had been instrumental in reuniting the twins rather by accident while visiting each branch of the Mages Guild during my Associateship. I rode past the Shrine of Sanguine, but had nothing to say to that Daedric Prince, so did not even slow down. As if in reply, the heavens opened and it started to rain. I pulled up my hood and flicked a Waterproofing spell over my robe.

I arrived at Skingrad in time for supper. Whenever visiting another city, I would avail myself of the facilities at the local branch of the Mages Guild. However, the Skingrad Guildhall at that time was... shall we say, dysfunctional? Half of the mages didn't get on with the other half; though who was on whose side varied from week to week. Moreover, it was governed by an ineffectual Head, more interested in her own research than in the welfare of her fellow mages. Spending the night there could be amusing, if you were pleased to thank the Nine that it _was_ merely a night and not forever: but I could never be sure what sort of reception I'd get.

In the end, it turned out to be a quiet evening. My good friend, the Bosmer mage Erthor, had once again been banished to Bleak Flats Cave to practice his Destruction magic there. Druja and Vigge were not speaking to each other, and Adrienne Berene had her head in a book, refusing to talk to anyone. I ate as quickly as I could, then parcelled up some bread rolls, fruit, and dried meat since it would otherwise be going to waste. I was determined to reach Kvatch by nightfall, no matter how much my thighs and backside chafed. Casting a quick healing spell, I set off again.

The Gold Road was surprisingly quiet. Almost worryingly so. Then, when I was about halfway to Kvatch, I saw the sky turn red. A pinkish-red colour at sunset is normal in late summer, but this was red like blood. Unsettling. Evil. A colour which would become increasingly familiar to us over the next few months, as Oblivion Gates opened across the land. Though I get ahead of myself. All I could think of at the time was that it reminded me of descriptions of the sky after a volcano eruption – but there _were_ no volcanoes in Cyrodiil. I had no idea what must have happened.

As I turned off the main road towards Kvatch, a panicked male Altmer ran towards me, screaming, “Come on! Run while there's still time! The Guard still holds the road, but it's only a matter of time before they're overwhelmed!”

“What?” I replied. “What's happened?”

“Gods' blood, you don't know, do you? Daedra overran Kvatch last night! There were glowing portals outside the walls! Gates to Oblivion itself! There was a huge creature... something out of a nightmare... came right over the walls... blasting fire. They swarmed around it... killing...”

I examined the shaking elf carefully. He appeared to be both terrified and hysterical, far paler than an Altmer's usual golden complexion, and what he was saying made so little sense that I wasn't sure if I could trust what he was saying. Not that I thought he was deliberately lying, but that his own fear had warped a perfectly natural event into some calamity. Gates to Oblivion? I was a mage, trained almost from birth by my family, with a further seven years spent in learning and research at the Arcane University. Although not an expert, I had some idea of the amount of magicka needed to summon just a single daedroth into our world. Whole gates opening? That didn't make sense, and I told him so.

The elf threw his hands up in the air. “Go and see for yourself! Kvatch is a smoking ruin! We're all that's left, do you understand me? Everyone else is dead!”

I looked around. Now that I'd been off the road for a while and my eyes had adjusted to the smoke, I could see hastily-erected tents, and desperate people – apparently of all races. There were humans: Bretons, Imperials, Nords, and Redguards; elves: Altmer, Bosmer, and orcs; and even an Argonian or two wandering aimlessly around the makeshift camp. I couldn't see any Dunmer or Khajiit right that second, but really, did I _need_ to see dark elves or feline folk in order to prove to myself that this was a disaster of great proportion?

My head hurt. I was tired, the skin inside my thighs burned, and my arse felt bruised from my unaccustomed long horse ride. I'd expected to ride to Kvatch, find Martin, and carry him away with me. Maybe I still could.

“Do you know a priest called Martin?” I asked. “He's human, probably an Imperial.” Seemed like a fair guess considering who his father had been.

I think the elf must have thought I was stupid. “I knew a priest named Martin once. I'm sure he's dead, just like the rest of them. They're all dead, don't you understand?”

Damn. Until I had confirmation that the heir to the throne was dead, I'd leave it as “damn”, but plenty of worse swear words were at the back of my mind waiting for their chance to slip out.

“So tell me – how did you manage to escape?”

“It was Savlian Matius... some of the other guards... helped some of us escape... they cut their way out, right through the city gates. Savlian says they can hold the road. No... no, I don't believe him. Nothing can stop them. If you'd seen it, you'd know... I'm getting out of here before it's too late! They'll be here any minute, I'm telling you. Run while you can!”

“Good luck,” I told him, sincerely. “I have to find Martin... or his corpse.” By the Nine, if he _were_ dead, how could I prove myself innocent of his murder? I wondered anew how come none of the Emperor's legitimate sons had children: had the princes expected their father to last forever, or had _they_ all been killed too? No wives or children had been mentioned in the news but... Maybe they weren't considered important? I thought our culture was fairly equal towards women, but it was true that we only had _Emperors_.

Shuddering, I rode further into the refugee camp. Suddenly I saw someone that I knew: Sigrid, the alchemist for the local branch of the Mages Guild. I knew her to be level-headed, sensible, and good in a crisis. Maybe she could tell me what had happened.

When I approached her, she stared as if she couldn't believe it was me, before saying bitterly, “You picked a bad time to visit Kvatch, Alix.”

“Sigrid, I... What happened?” Her blonde hair was dirty – ashy, even.

“Go look for yourself. The town is gone. And most of its people. The Daedra came out of the gate in the middle of the night. People who fought, died. People who ran... they at least had a chance.” She sighed, deeply.

“Wait, so... There really is an Oblivion Gate?” An Evoker of the Mages Guild, someone higher in rank than me and considerably more experienced, was telling me the same as the hysterical high elf. Could it really be true? The Emperor _himself_ had apparently perceived some threat from Oblivion. I wished I'd taken him by the shoulders and shaken him, Emperor or no Emperor, until he'd stopped speaking in riddles and told me what I needed to know.

“There _were_ several. Now there's only one left, but it's not closing.”

“But... That's impossible! How can there be a stable portal between Mundus and Oblivion?”

“I have _no idea_ , Alix,” the Nord woman said, closing her eyes to blink away the tears that she wouldn't let fall. “Please... let me mourn for my city in peace.”

“Is anyone else from the Guild in this camp?” I asked. Since the Kvatch guild had once specialised in necromancy, before Arch-Mage Traven's ban on the practice, it now had no particular “theme” and housed mages from a variety of schools. Maybe someone with Conjuration skills was present, an expert in summoning daedra, and I could pick _their_ brains.

“Alix...” and with that, Sigrid really did start to cry, “I'm the only one left.”

“Damn,” I swore. If I'd known her better, I'd have hugged her. She looked like she could use it. Instead, I reached out and patted her shoulder, awkwardly. “I... I'm so very sorry.”

“I don't want your sympathy,” she told me, Nord to the core. “I want revenge.”

* * *

I walked through the rows of tents, feeling like a spectator to the tragedy. Some sort of gawper, here to look rather than provide aid. That felt truly uncomfortable, and I _did_ keep looking around for anyone who needed healing. But the injuries seemed to be to people's souls and psyches, and I knew of no Restoration magic that could quickly fix that.

I saw a man in a grey priest's robe on the hillside, and went towards him. He was an Imperial, the right race to be Martin, though he seemed possibly too old. Then again, I was unsure what age Martin actually was. The three legitimate princes had ranged from fifty-three to fifty-six years old. I knew that Emperor Uriel couldn't possibly have fathered any children during the ten years he was imprisoned in Oblivion by Jagar Tharn, so that meant Martin must be over forty-three or under thirty-four. Yes, I _had_ been very bored during the journey to Skingrad, why do you ask?

Approaching the priest, I asked who he was, but he was too doom-ridden to tell me his name. “Hope is gone. The Imperial line is dead. The Covenant is broken. The Enemy has won.”

“Listen, I really need to find a priest called Martin. Is that you?”

He didn't seem to hear what I was saying. “The Imperial line is dead, and the gods have forsaken us. Where is our blessing? Where is our protection? Where are our gods? The Enemy triumphs, and we die alone.”

“Who is the Enemy?” I asked. It had a capital letter in his pronunciation.

“Lord Dagon is the Enemy. He is the Prince of Destruction, and the Daedra are his servants.”

Damn. The Emperor had mentioned the Prince of Destruction, and Jauffre had told me his name was Mehrunes Dagon. To find the Daedric Prince's... hands (did Daedric Princes even _have_ hands?) all over the city's destruction didn't bode well for Martin's survival.

“Please,” I said. “Do you know for a fact that the priest Martin is dead?”

He groaned. “The Chapel is cast down, and the faithful... my friends... all dead. The Enemy has won, and we are destroyed.”

I didn't know what to say to that. Bidding him farewell, I continued up the hillside. I couldn't return to Jauffre without proof of Martin's fate.

* * *

At the top of the hill, I discovered that what everyone had been saying was true. Far too true. An enormous, gaping portal stood there, as if it had grown straight out of the ground – dark grey and black rock around the edges, with terrible spikes. Inside, swirling red and yellow... flames? gases? Daedra were still pouring out – little scamps, lizard-like clannfear, flame atronachs... Soldiers in the uniform I recognised as belonging to the Kvatch City Guard crouched behind hastily-constructed barricades, shooting arrows into the demonic creatures as they rushed towards them.

One soldier, apparently senior to the rest, yelled, “Stand back, civilian! This is no place for you. Get back to the encampment at once!”

I'd watched the refugees in the camp helplessly, knowing no Restoration magic for broken hearts. I couldn't stand back and watch the soldiers. I cast Fire Shield on myself and dashed into the fray. The captain was shouting at me, but I couldn't hear his words over the noise of battle. Pooling magicka in my hands, I readied Frost Bolts – lots and lots of Frost Bolts, and cast them towards the vulnerable flame atronachs. A large clannfear charged towards me, and I leapt out of the way, casting Chameleon on myself to blend into the background. The bulky lizard couldn't stop or turn in time, and ended up crashing into the city gates. Chanting a spell to make my magicka regenerate faster, I switched to Fire attacks – easier for me with my natural affinity for the element – throwing Fireballs at the clannfear's backside as it struggled to turn around, and then at scamps.

Suddenly the battle was over. I stood, blinking, right by the Oblivion Gate, as my Chameleon spell wore off. I jumped as the captain's heavy hand fell onto my shoulder. “You. Come with me.” I followed him back behind the barrier.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“My name is Alix de Feu. I'm a Journeyman of the Mages Guild.” I was getting rather good at introducing myself. “Are you Savlian Matius?”

“I am,” he confirmed. “What are you doing here?”

“It's kind of a long story,” I explained. “What exactly happened?”

“We lost the damned city, that's what happened! It was too much, too fast. We were overwhelmed. Couldn't even get everyone out. There are still people trapped in there. Some made it into the Chapel, but others were just run down in the streets. The Count and his men are still holed up in the castle. And now we can't even get back into the city to help them, with that damned Oblivion Gate blocking the way.”

I only heard one thing that was important. “The Chapel? Have you seen a priest called Martin?”

“Last I saw him, he was leading a group towards the Chapel of Akatosh. If he's lucky, he's trapped in there with the rest of them, at least safe for the moment. If he's not...”

“Gods damn it all!” I cursed, my hands clenched into fists.

Matius was not stupid. “Why... are you so concerned about _one priest_?” he asked. “Is he a friend of yours?”

“Never met him before in my life. Like I said, it really is a long story. I was sent here to rescue him, because his father thought he was in danger.”

The guard peered at me suspiciously. “I know for a fact that his father is dead! Who are you, really?”

I sighed. “I really am Alix de Feu, I really am a Journeyman of the Mages Guild, and I was sent here by Martin's real father. Not his adoptive father. He doesn't even know that he was adopted, so it's going to be something of a shock when I tell him. You can check my identity with Sigrid down the hill if you really want. In the meantime, I have to get this man out of the city.”

“And we have to get _everyone else_ out of the city. My home... my goddamn home, in flames. It kills me that I can't get in there and _do_ something.”

“What are your strategies for now? Can I be of some use?”

“We'll try to hold our ground, that's what. If we can't hold this barricade, those beasts could march right down and overrun the encampment. I have to try and protect the few civilians that are left. It's all I can do now. If only I had a way to strike back at the enemy. But we can't leave the barricade until that Oblivion Gate is closed.”

I thought carefully. What were my skills? Brains, flames, and sneakiness. An idea was forming. I didn't much like it, but nothing else sprung to mind. I _had_ to rescue Martin if he was alive, and get proof of his death if he wasn't. Anything else was secondary.

“Okay,” I said, finally. “I think I can sneak past any daedra who are left inside the city walls to see if the man I've been sent for is inside the Chapel. While I'm there, I can count up survivors, and report back to you afterwards.”

Matius shrugged. “On your own head be it.”


	5. Impossibly Beautiful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alix finds Martin in the Chapel of Akatosh and tells the poor priest that he's the Emperor's son.

I cast Chameleon, and ran for the city gates. Sneaking through was easy, since they were wedged half-open, and I was skinny. Dodging the scamps and clannfear that were still inside, I dashed for the Chapel – fortunately, the first major building inside the town, and the only one I could see that wasn't completely smashed to rubble. The steeple had been knocked off and lay alongside the building, but apart from that it seemed to be in good condition.

Barrelling through the door, I almost crashed into a Redguard warrior in the Kvatch City Guard's uniform. Her dark hair was tied into cornrows, and her brown skin would have glowed with health, were she not so tired. As she drew her sword, I dropped my Chameleon spell, proving myself human and rather helpless-looking. She stared at me, as if wondering where I'd come from, before asking, “What's it like out there? We were beginning to fear we were the only survivors.”

How could I answer that? “It's bad,” I told her, honestly. “There's an encampment at the base of the hill with... I don't know, maybe forty or fifty people in it? And there are ten or so guards manning barricades around the Oblivion Gate. There are still daedra coming out of there every so often.”

“Damn,” she swore. “It... it all happened so fast. It was all we could do to round up the survivors and try and get them to safety. We've failed them miserably.” Slowly, she replaced her sword in its scabbard – as if frustrated not to have an enemy to hit.

“Don't blame yourself,” I said. “From what I've seen, this has all the hallmarks of a Daedric Prince. There isn't much that mere mortals can do when the Daedra decide to invade Mundus.”

“I don't even understand how they _could_. Or why they'd want to.”

“Few people understand anything to do with Daedric Princes. Only the crazy fools who choose to worship them.” I smiled, and held out my hand. “My name's Alix.”

“Tierra.” She shook my hand, formally.

“I'm looking for a priest called Martin. Is he here?”

“Brother Martin? Yes, he's right over there. He led a group of us here during the confusion of the attack. We owe him our lives.” She pointed towards the altar.

I looked in the direction Tierra was pointing, and immediately caught sight of the lone priest - Martin? A man of Imperial heritage, he was leaning on the altar for support, his lips moving in prayer. His exhaustion was apparent even at this distance, but so was his anger. His fists were clenched and I wondered how I could ever have mistaken the sad old priest in the refugee camp for this man. He was of average height and weight, his body compact behind the faded blue-grey robe, yet he gave the impression of being taller than he was. That was probably due to the aura of leadership that surrounded him like a cloak.

The priest exhaled, opened his eyes, and set off on his rounds again. Injured and damaged people lay on bedrolls at that end of the Chapel; he stopped by each one to offer what healing and comfort he could. With his head angled downwards and partly hidden by long brown hair, I couldn't make out much of his face; but I thought he could not be more than middle-aged. He moved like a younger man, one who ordinarily would have energy and vitality. Though his olive skin was pale, and lined with fatigue.

As I approached him, he turned his attention to me, and I gasped as the resemblance to his father became apparent. His nose, chin, jawline... he had almost exactly the same face as the Emperor; only younger, and darker-skinned. His eyes weren't the exact same shade of blue, but were the same shape, with the same unusually-long eyelashes. Somehow they remained bright, despite being bloodshot and surrounded by dark circles. Even his hairstyle was the same, though longer – Martin's hair brushed his shoulders. I probably stood there and gaped for a minute or two before he spoke to me. In that broken building, full of hurt people, he was impossibly beautiful.

Of course, as the city's priest, Martin must have known everyone in Kvatch at least by sight. He didn't recognise me, and I saw hope flare in those blue eyes. “Have you brought help? We've been trapped here since the daedra overran the city.” He spoke quietly, his soft voice roughened by hours of prayer. Subjected to his intense gaze, I felt almost _naked_ , as if he could see right through me into the soul beneath. It hurt more than I expected when I shook my head, and his expression faded to dulled weariness.

I blinked. “Are you Martin?” I was certain that he must be the man I sought, his appearance was so similar to the late Emperor - yet I had to check.

The priest nodded, tiredly. “I am. Do you need a priest? I don't think I'll be much help to you. I'm having trouble understanding the gods right now. If all this is part of a divine plan, I'm not sure I want to have anything to do with it...”

“I've been sent here to find you. You're in terrible danger.”

He almost spat his reply, impatient to return to those in need. “ _Of course_ we're in danger. I assume you didn't risk your own life to come here to tell me something I already know. Who are you and what do you want?”

I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised by Martin's reaction: how as a priest in charge of a flock of injured people, he misinterpreted the word “you” as applying to everyone in the Chapel, rather than to him in particular. The fact that he was perfectly correct grated against my conscience, hitting the same basic empathy for others that had led me to help the soldiers outside the city. Of course I wanted to help everyone if I could, but the only way I could see to do so was to get Martin to understand who he was, so that he could take the Amulet of Kings to light the Dragonfires, blah blah blah. Not that I had a clue what the Dragonfires had to do with anything, _anyway_. Having not really thought it through, I might even have fondly assumed that Martin could light them and then go back to his life as a priest. Stupid, naïve Alix that I was.

I repeated the same introduction that I already seemed to have made several times that day. “My name is Alix de Feu. I'm a Journeyman of the Mages Guild. As for why I'm here...” I glanced around, seeing everywhere the watching eyes and listening ears of the citizens of Kvatch – what was left of them. I sighed, closing my eyes and offering up a quick prayer to Akatosh, since it was His priest that I needed to convince. “Please, Martin – is there anywhere a little more private that we can talk? What I have to say is for your ears only."

The priest eyed me, thoughtfully – obviously weighing up his chances against me, should I turn from insane to violent. Seeing only a skinny Breton mage with long, orange hair, he turned on his heel and led me downstairs, through the Chapel Hall, to what appeared to be a small library. Well-tended despite its size, I wondered how many of the books were his. He seemed educated.

He sat down, heavily, on the chair next to a cluttered desk, and vaguely indicated that I should do the same. “All right. You were going to tell me why you are here?”

I breathed in deeply as I searched for what to say. “I was sent here by...” Gods, that wasn't going to work. “The Emperor told me to find you.”

That made him angry, as if he thought I was winding him up for my own amusement. He hissed through his teeth, “The Emperor is _dead_. What do you _really_ want with me?”

I sighed. He was so tired... I wondered when he'd last slept. The bags under his eyes could not be simply the effects of a single sleepless night. I felt desperately sorry for what I had to say, since I wasn't sure that finding out you were the heir to the throne was something that would fill a person with joy on a perfectly ordinary day. Coming on top of his home town being destroyed... Well.

Why hadn't I thought this conversation through as I rode to Kvatch, instead of wasting time on calculations of the priest's exact age? I started, feebly, “You spoke earlier of divine plans...” This was no good, judging by the open disbelief on Martin's face, darkening rapidly with every word. I blundered on, “I think there is a plan of sorts...” It was obvious when Martin's frustration boiled over and erupted into rage. His bloodshot eyes flashed, and I knew this was a man not to trifle with, even as my words trailed off.

“ _What_ plan? What are you talking about? I prayed to Akatosh all through that terrible night, but no help came. Only more daedra. What can you possibly know that would help me make sense of this?” His voice grew louder as he spoke, until finally he was shouting, the anger in his voice betraying the deep grief in his words.

Since he'd yelled at me, I shouted back, “I know that you're...”

I was interrupted by a middle-aged Redguard woman, who poked her head out of the adjoining room and said, calmly, “Is everything all right, Martin?”

He jumped, startled. I saw Ice magic gather in his palms before he realised who had spoken. He dropped his head, allowing the curtains of hair to cover his face, though not before I'd seen his blush. “I... I think so,” he replied, much softer, sounding somewhat sheepish. What relationship did he have with this woman?

“Then could you please keep it down? You know I've been up all night healing, and I need to restore my magicka before I can help any more people.”

“Yes, Oleta. Of course. I'm sorry,” he said, as she closed the door; before explaining to me, “That was Oleta. She's the chapel healer here, _and_ Master Restoration trainer. I owe my life to her.”

That was an interesting titbit of information. I was curious about the details, but wasn't going to ask just then. Their conversation had given me a minute to think, so as gently as I could, I told him, “I spoke to the Emperor before he died, and he told me to find you. He said that you were his last, secret son.”

An expression of immense terror flashed across Martin's face, but vanished as quickly as it came. He laughed harshly, as if he'd put me back in the category of 'crazy', and spoke very rapidly. “Emperor Uriel Septim? You think _the Emperor_ was my father? No, you must have the wrong man. I am a priest of Akatosh. My father was a farmer.” It was strange: his words implied that he didn't believe me, but his tone of voice and gestures seemed in deliberate denial – as if hoping against hope that something he half-knew wasn't true. And that look - I wondered what _exactly_ he'd been told, and by whom.

“Martin, look at yourself in a mirror, and then look at a picture of Uriel Septim in a book. Your adoptive father might have been a farmer, but your true father was the Emperor. He hid you away for your own safety.”

With that, the priest gaped at me: eyes very wide, shaking his head. “No,” he said. “No, no, no. It _can't_ be true. It can't be!” He shivered, and I wanted to comfort him. Yet I knew I had even worse news to impart.

“Martin, I... I'm really sorry. You know that the Emperor and all his legitimate heirs have been assassinated? Well... that's why the daedra came to Kvatch. To kill you.”

The colour drained from his skin. White as a sheet, he looked as though he might faint or vomit at any moment. Very quietly, almost whispering, he said, “An entire city destroyed to get at _me_? Why...? Because I'm... the Emperor's son?”

“If I understand it correctly, you're the last man of the Septim line left. That means you're now the heir to the Ruby Throne.” I wasn't sure what I'd do if he collapsed. He seemed horribly close to it. Again, I got the feeling that he already knew what I was telling him on some level, and I was simply confirming it. 

His head dropped into his hands, brown hair falling to cover his face, trying to process the information. He sobbed just once - a shuddering, grief-stricken sound - before looking up again. “I don't know. It's strange... I think you might actually be telling the truth. What does this mean? What do you want from me?”

“I... By the Nine, Martin, I know this must be almost impossible to believe. There's a man called Jauffre, who's the Grandmaster of the Blades. I want you to come with me to meet him. He has the Amulet of Kings. If... if you can wear it, then the gods have decided that you're the next Emperor.”

Now he really _did_ break down, wrapping both arms around his head to hide it. I sat on my chair, entirely uselessly – wanting nothing more than to throw my arms round him and hold him, tell him that everything would be okay. I didn't know where these protective feelings were coming from, except that he looked _so_ very sad. There was something about him that reminded me of a puppy that had been kicked too many times. I wanted to hug him, but I didn't know him. Instead, I patted his shoulder, gently.

Martin cringed away from my touch, so I let him be. Eventually, he stopped weeping and looked up. “No.” he said.

“I'm sorry, Martin, but no man can deny his destiny.” I would regret saying those words, some months later.

He shook his head. “Not that. No. I'm sorry, but even if what you say is true, I won't abandon these people to their fate. I'm _needed_ here. I can't leave.”

“What... What do you want me to do?”

“Come back with help. I don't know how much longer we can hold out in here.”

I must have looked entirely dismayed, since he went on, “It isn't that I don't believe you. But I won't go with you until I know everyone can leave here safely. We've been through too much together already for me to just abandon them.”

Gods damn me to Oblivion, since that was where I was likely to end up next.

“Martin, if... if I don't come back, please will you make your way to Jauffre at Weynon Priory, near Chorrol?” I was desperate, pleading, maybe even begging.

“I'll see what I can do,” the priest told me, standing up to make his way back upstairs. He'd hidden his emotions behind the mask of leadership that I'd seen before; only this time, I knew it was only a veneer, that he was in as much pain as everyone else. Back to Tierra for a headcount of the refugees, and then back to Savlian Matius, hoping he had something useful to say.

* * *

Savlian Matius and I were unlikely to be friends any time soon. “There are twenty-seven people trapped in the Chapel, including your two soldiers, Berich Inian and Tierra,” I told him. “Eighteen are wounded, thirteen of those seriously, three are too hurt to be able to walk. The priest and chapel healer are doing their best, but those numbers are unlikely to improve – especially as they're running out of food.” I had, out of compassion, left the entire contents of my pockets in the Chapel, in the hope of keeping people alive a bit longer.

“And you want to take the priest away from here,” said Captain Matius.

“Yes.” Bald statement of fact.

“I still don't understand... Tell me, is his father an important man?”

My silence obviously stood for assent, for he nodded. “You want to help?”

“Want to, no. But Martin's refusing to leave the Chapel until everyone else can leave too. So it looks like I'll _have_ to.” The Nine damn me for a fool. Risking my life to save the heir to the throne was one thing, risking my life to save whoever in Kvatch was left was quite another. At least I'd told Martin where he should go if I... if I didn't make it back. Whether or not he _would_ go by himself was another matter. Would he even be safe? I didn't know whether he had any fighting ability whatsoever. Well... Maybe some Blades would turn up before then.

Matius laughed, breaking through my introspection. “You're kidding, right? Hmm... if you're serious, maybe I can put you to use. It'll likely mean your death, though. Are you sure?”

What a cheery man. “I have no choice, do I?”

“While that infernal Oblivion Gate still stands, I don't dare leave the camp undefended. Are you willing to try and close it?”

By the Nine, no. “Yes,” I told him.

“I don't know how to close this Gate, but it must be possible, because the enemy closed the ones they opened during the initial attack. You can see the marks on the ground where they were, with the Great Gate right in the middle.” Huh. So that agreed with what Sigrid had told me. _And_ the half-crazed high elf whose name I hadn't caught: he'd definitely mentioned _Gates_ , plural. “I sent men into the Gate, to see if they could find a way to shut it. They haven't come back. If you can get in there, find out what happened to them. If they're alive, help them finish the job. If not, see what you can do on your own. The best I can say is, good luck. If you make it back alive, we'll be waiting for you.”

I nodded, cast Chameleon, and stepped through the portal to Oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The conversation between Martin and Alix was heavily edited by luminare_ardua - many thanks for that!


	6. Stubborn Bastard!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alix goes into Oblivion itself, and develops a worrying obsession with clean underwear.

I have no desire to waste what's left of my precious life in repeating tales I've told over and over again. I've been interviewed many times about what it was like inside Oblivion, and my answers may be found in other books. The fact is that only those of us who went into the Gates can ever truly imagine it. Those poor Dunmer who survived the Eruption of Red Mountain in 4E 5 may have more of a hope than ordinary mortals – the ash, lava, newly-forming rock, plumes of smoke and dust – all of these things have much in common with volcanic eruptions. But then there were the daedra to contend with – not just the lesser demons like scamps, clannfear, and atronachs; but also spider daedra, Xivilai, and Dremora: sentient beings as intelligent as men or elves. _And_ the revolting decorations – dead human or elven bodies, parts of zombies, fleshy bags which still pulsed like a heart beating. Think of the hottest, most frightening landscape you can, then populate it with demons created by a foul Daedric Prince. That's Oblivion: or at least, the part of it created by Mehrunes Dagon. Known as the Deadlands, it was deadly for mortals.

Those of us who survived did so with a combination of wits, fighting skills, and pure luck. Sometimes the strongest warriors died while weaker ones made it through. Sometimes the most intelligent fighters sacrificed themselves so that others might live. Menien Goneld was one of these. Trapped by Dremora in a magic-proof cage, he told me how to close the Oblivion Gate. “You must get to the top of the large tower. The Sigil Keep, they call it. That's what keeps the Oblivion Gate open! Find the Sigil Stone. Remove it, and the Gate will close! Don't worry about me; there's no time! Get moving!” Although the layout of each Oblivion world proved to be slightly different, this set up was true for every one. The Sigil Stone at the top of the tallest tower was the key to closing the Gate, and returning the mortals inside back to Mundus.

One thing I was never sure of was how time passed in Mehrunes Dagon's Deadlands: whether it was the same as in our world. Being in constant fear for your life is enough to cause time to pass differently even without a god or Daedric Prince to muddle things up. All I know is that by the time I staggered back out of the Kvatch Oblivion Gate, clutching the Sigil Stone and mumbling to myself like an idiot, it was mid-morning and I had been functioning on pure adrenaline for too long.

I crumpled in a heap behind the smoking ruins of the Oblivion Gate. It turned out that closing it didn't send it back to the Deadlands. (This is why the ruins of Gates can still be seen throughout Tamriel.) Savlian Matius came running up to me, shouting, “You closed the Gate? I knew you could do it! This is our chance to launch a counterattack! I need you to come with us. You've got far more combat experience than these men. Are you able to join us now?”

Was the man a complete moron? I was filthy, desperately dehydrated, and no doubt smelled of piss from all the times I'd peed myself in fear. At least every time my stomach twisted from the sulphurous stench or another of those hideous fleshy creations, I'd managed to avoid vomiting on my clothes. “Look at me,” I said. “I need water, food, and either a couple of hours sleep, or a couple of Restore Stamina potions before I have a hope of moving again. Ideally, some clean underwear as well.”

He looked at me as though _I_ was the idiot. “Where do you expect us to get supplies from? We're in a siege, here. I can wait, but not for long. We've got to move quickly, before they have a chance to barricade the city gate.”

“For gods' sakes! If you have any soldiers who can still walk, send them down to my horse. She's a painted horse with a couple of saddlebags, and you'll know they're mine because they're filled with mage... stuff. There's a water bottle that should be almost full, a couple of apples, maybe some bread and meat, plenty of potions, and _definitely_ some clean underwear.”

“What _is_ your obsession with underwear?” Matius asked, not unkindly.

“Believe me, if you'd just been to Oblivion, you'd need clean underwear as well. Now, please. I'm going to pass out if I don't get something to drink soon.” Indeed, the world was starting to blur. Matius stared at me for a few seconds, as my body told me in no uncertain terms that I'd been exerting myself for too long; then started yelling orders which I didn't hear as I fell down.

I lay on the ground for some time, insensible to the world around me, before some soldiers returned with the things I'd asked for. I drank some water immediately, before gulping down a Restore Stamina potion. Not wanting my stomach to rebel during a battle, I ate some bread and an apple, thinking of easily digestible starch for energy, before forcing myself to swallow another potion. The flavour was not any nicer the second time, and I really did wonder why I was pushing myself past my limits. Was it only because the heir to the throne was being stubborn? Or was I somehow compelled to obey him?

Eventually, I felt able to move. Staggering to the makeshift privy, I used it, holding my nose as I did so, then changed my drawers – instantly feeling a whole lot better. I would have to write to my mother to thank her for the advice... sometime when my life was back to normal. I returned to the barricade to find Captain Matius muttering, “The longer we wait, the smaller our window of opportunity. We've got to move soon.” His motley troops were already lined up in some sort of attack formation. How exactly _did_ I have more combat experience than them, again?

“Okay,” I told him. “I'm ready now.”

Matius yelled, “For Kvatch!”, then he and his soldiers ran headlong into the ruins. I followed behind them, using the same technique I'd employed before: Chameleon to disguise myself, and lots of Destruction spells. Ice for the flame atronachs, Fire for everything else. One man was collapsed on the floor, dying: I poured Restoration magic into him and mended his ripped artery. I couldn't do anything about the blood he'd already lost, but at least I stopped him losing any more. He got to his feet staring at the space where I was perfectly camouflaged, believing it to be some sort of miracle from the gods, before picking up his bow and drawing another arrow. I kept behind the trained military, attacking daedra where I could, healing my allies when I couldn't.

We cut down all of the daedra within that walled area, and burst through into the Chapel of Akatosh. Rubble blocked access to the rest of the city, so our only way in lay through the Chapel itself. Savlian Matius was talking to Tierra, asking her for a report. She replied, “Sir, we're all that's left. Berich Inian, myself, and these civilians.”

Matius appeared shocked. “That's it? There's no one else?” Did he think I'd been lying when I'd said “twenty-seven”?

“There _were_ others, sir. But they refused to stay put. We tried to convince them it was dangerous, but they left anyway. I guess they didn't make it.” Tierra seemed to be blaming herself again, and I vowed to do my utmost to convince her that it wasn't her fault.

Matius snapped out of his trance. “Very well. The area outside the Chapel has been cleared, and these people need to be taken to safety. Escort them to the camp south of here at once.” 

“But, sir! I want to help fight!” Tierra was _definitely_ in need of something to hit.  

“You will, soldier. Once they're secure, get back here immediately. We'll need every available blade, and there'll be plenty of fighting to go around.”

She gathered the survivors – I noticed that Martin had got everyone organised, with less wounded people supporting the more wounded, and those without physical injuries carrying the seriously hurt on stretchers. Tierra shouted “Civilians! It's time to move out! Let's go!”, and the trail of refugees slowly made its way out of the Chapel. Of course, Martin was the last to leave, nodding at me on his way past. _Stubborn_ bastard! 

I thought that would be the end of my involvement with the siege of Kvatch. I'd run back down to the camp at the bottom of the hill, find somewhere to crash out for a few hours, then grab the stubborn bastard and ride back to Weynon Priory. But no – Savlian Matius was approaching me again. Argh. “We've done it! I can't believe it - I didn't really think this would work. Maybe we _do_ have a fighting chance.” I must have groaned, for he continued, “Oh, yes. We're not done. Not even close. This was only the first step. If this town is to be ours again, we'll need to get inside the castle. You've come this far with us; will you go further? If we're truly going to succeed, I'll need much more of your help. I warn you though, what we've seen so far is nothing compared to the battle that likely awaits us.”

One of the most important factors in understanding who I was as a young man is that I could never stand back and leave people to suffer. I could not bear to do nothing if I could do _something_. My friends back in the Arcane University called me “Bleeding-Heart Alix”, for I felt incredibly strong empathy with everyone's pain. I was as powerless to resist Captain Matius's entreaty as I had been to resist Jauffre's... or indeed, the Emperor's. Damn.

* * *

Retaking Kvatch was more effort than Matius had expected. We got as far as the Castle gate before discovering that it was locked, and the only way to open it was from inside the gatehouse. Climbing the gate was apparently impossible, so I got sent back to the Chapel to find Berich Inian, who had the key to the North Guard House. We then fought our way through the Chapel Undercroft with the help of a few Imperial Legion soldiers who'd seen the smoke from the Gold Road, and out to another part of Kvatch. Tierra screamed bloody murder, cast Adrenaline Rush, and cut down daedra faster even than an orc berserker. I'd never seen anything like her speed and blade skill before. Then we went through a secret passage under the North Guard House to the Castle gatehouse. Berich Inian opened the gate, while I tossed Fireballs into the waiting crowd of daedra; assisting the rest of the Kvatch City Guard with Restoration magic as they stormed into battle. We made our way into the Castle – Kvatch Guards, Imperial Legion, and I, the sole representative of the Mages Guild. Unfortunately, while we successfully cleared the remaining daedra out of the castle, we were too late to save the Count. He was lying in a pool of his own blood, having died hours – or even days – previously.

By the time we returned to the encampment, it was early evening. Rumours had spread and for some reason I, with my flaming hair and Mages Guild robe, was being hailed as a hero. It seemed unfair – I was no more a hero than the Kvatch City Guards who'd had to deal with a situation far outside their normal job description, the Imperial Legion soldiers who'd hastened to the city to help us, or Martin and Oleta who'd saved countless lives in the Chapel. Perhaps it was irony based on my underwhelming physical appearance, or the fact that I was almost a complete stranger to the city, so had no particular personal interest in helping them. Nonetheless, Savlian Matius made a great show of presenting me with his own armour, declaring me to be the Hero of Kvatch. He told me, “Kvatch was rebuilt from ruins once before and she'll do it again. You have my thanks.”

Blushing as red as my wavy hair, I wanted nothing more than to slink out anonymously; but I still had to find Martin. I approached random people, who congratulated me for closing the Gate, then told me “He should be around the camp somewhere.” Some of the survivors that I recognised as having been in the Chapel of Akatosh told me, “I'll never forget him. He saved as many as he could that terrible night. If only they'd listened and stayed with us in the Chapel.” Everyone that I spoke to seemed to have the most dreadful survivors' guilt complex, and I suspected that Martin's might be the worst of the lot, considering that he was – entirely unwittingly – responsible for the attack.

I finally found the priest kneeling on the ground next to an elven woman who'd been badly burnt in the fires that had engulfed the city as it collapsed. He was holding her hand in one of his own while casting Convalescence. I noticed how large his hands were – square palms, long fingers, blunt nails. The blue light of Restoration magic soared around her body, and I saw some of the most damaged skin slough off as new pink skin appeared behind to replace it. Martin looked close to collapse himself. Silently, I pulled out a Restore Magicka potion from my bag, and offered it to him. He accepted, nodding thanks, and continued healing. Eventually, he ran out of magicka again. Murmuring words of comfort to the injured woman, he rocked back on his heels, preparing to stand. I held out my hands to him, helping him up, and we walked away from the tent together.

He turned to me, muttering, “I wondered if you'd come back. I admit, I've had my doubts about your story.”

“I almost didn't _make it_ back,” I told him. “Thanks to your damned stubbornness, I had to go into Oblivion itself.”

A flicker of guilt passed across Martin's face. “I heard that you closed the Gate. Well done, Alix.” Huh. I hadn't realised he'd remembered my name.

“So... are you ready to come with me, now? If you're uncertain about my story, the only thing that could possibly convince you would be the Amulet. You're a priest of Akatosh – you must be aware that your god made it with His own blood.”

“I... Yes.” Martin's head was bowed, his hair hiding his expression. I wondered if this was a habitual pose of his, and if so, how many women (or men) had fallen prey to his charms. He looked up, hair falling back into place. “There are still many others here who need help.”

I sighed. “Martin, I hate to remind you of this, but if what the Emperor and Jauffre said is true, you are endangering these people just with your presence here. Mehrunes Dagon has already opened several Oblivion Gates in an attempt to kill you. I'm not blaming _you_ for the fall of Kvatch – how could anyone, when you didn't even _know_... but if you stay here, the daedra will return.”

The priest whispered, almost to himself, “The Oblivion Gates. They violate the most basic principles of daedric magic. They _should_ be impossible. Something fundamental must have changed to make them possible.”

“You're telling me. I've been in the Mages Guild for seven years, and all I've ever heard about are the magical barriers separating Mundus from Oblivion. I don't understand how they could have broken down.”

“Daedra attacking my friends... again.” His whisper was so quiet that I wasn't even sure if I was supposed to have heard it. He was silent for a few moments, and this time I said nothing, giving him time to sort out his thoughts. Finally, he made eye contact. “You destroyed the Oblivion Gate. You gave the people hope. You helped the Guard drive the daedra back. Yes. I'll come with you to Weynon Priory and hear what Jauffre has to say.”

“Do you need to tell anyone that you're leaving?” Not that I wanted to give him any opportunity to change his mind, but I didn't want anyone to worry about him either.

“Oleta. I know where she is.” He nodded. “I'll meet you by your horse in five minutes. I have... _many_ questions about all this. I hope Jauffre will be able to answer them.”


	7. For his own Protection.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alix and Martin leave Kvatch and are attacked by bandits and bad dreams, respectively.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Depictions of PTSD. Poor Martin.
> 
> May sound racist towards Khajiit. Later chapters will make it clear that it's only Khajiit _bandits_ that Alix has problems with, rather than all of the feline folk.

Martin was silent as we rode away from Kvatch. I knew he hadn't slept for at least two nights, and was beyond exhausted. I myself hadn't slept since the Imperial City Prison, unless you counted that brief nap on the ground by the barricade earlier. But we _needed_ to leave immediately, so that Martin wasn't tempted to stay and help the people of Kvatch any longer. For both his own health and the safety of everyone around him, he had to be taken back to the guardianship of the Blades. I still wasn't sure whether he believed that he was the son of Uriel Septim, but I figured that he and Jauffre could sort that out between themselves later.

I made Martin sit on the horse's saddle, while I perched behind him on a blanket. He seemed extremely uncomfortable, shifting about on his seat. Since his robe was long, I couldn't see whether his legs were protected by trousers, and he was so modest in appearance and demeanour that I couldn't bring myself to ask. As I reached around him for the reins, he twitched and turned round, alarmed. Though as soon as he realised it was only me, he sighed and tried to relax.

Having seen his reaction to his friend Oleta, I knew he was going to be seeing the ghosts of enemies everywhere for a while. I didn't want to force physical contact onto him; but it was for his own protection, since I wasn't sure how long he'd be able to stay awake. If he was sitting behind me when he fell asleep, the first warning I'd have would be when his own arms slackened around my waist, which might not be enough time to catch him. I'd heard of people getting their skulls or spines smashed falling off horses when fully conscious. The thought of rescuing the heir to the throne, then getting him maimed or killed whilst riding to safety was... preposterous. Unthinkable. So he would just have to put up with physical contact from a stranger.

My caution was proven necessary when, mere minutes away from Kvatch, he did in fact doze off. I held onto him tightly as he slept, praying in my head to whichever of the Divines cared to listen. Reinforced by magic, Prior Maborel's mare made short work of the Gold Road, and I didn't expect the journey to take more than a couple of hours. I was concerned, however, by the presence of three or four bandit camps situated alongside the road. Normally, some degree of safety for travellers could be assured by the presence of Imperial Legion riders; but due to the death of the Emperor and the daedric invasion at Kvatch, none were on the road.

The first and second bandit camps were both empty, thank the Nine, but the third was staffed by a couple of scruffy Khajiit in fur armour with large steel weapons. I hoped I could spur the horse into riding right past them, but they'd chosen a particularly narrow part of the road for their ambush. Two of the bandits were enough to block the way completely.

“Your money, or your lives!” one of them cackled.

Neither of those were exactly an option. I didn't have enough money to placate a genuine highwayman, while Martin had only a small satchel and the clothes he stood up in. My life was negotiable, though I was rather attached to it - but the Emperor's last remaining heir was _priceless_.

Perhaps we looked like people who could be easily cowed? “I warn you, I'm a mage!” I hissed, trying not to wake Martin.

Skooma makes mundane things sound hilarious, and these Khajiit had been indulging themselves before we arrived. Laughing themselves fit to burst, the furry ruffians invited me to join battle, saying “Come and play, little mage!”

Knowing that Prior Maborel's horse belonged to a monk rather than a mage, I wasn't sure if she would be comfortable with my usual array of Destruction magic – all of which was both loud and colourful. I had a mental image of the mare bolting with fear, and carrying the sleeping priest several miles away, only to deposit him headfirst into a tree. Cursing under my breath, I climbed down from my mount, and prepared to launch Fireballs at the bandits.

That was a mistake. I was entirely overmatched on the ground. Skooma is a powerful stimulant, so the Khajiit could move unnaturally fast; whereas my reflexes were desperately impaired. Had I not been so tired, I could have done better – but as it was, I ended up sandwiched between the two highwaymen. If I launched an attack at one, the other would hit me with his weapon. If I launched a massive Fireball to hurt both of them, I might kill myself as well. Aware that I'd only told Martin that Weynon Priory was “near Chorrol”, I couldn't let myself die. But every time I tried to cast a Flame Shield, I was poked with sharp claws and lost my concentration. The bandits were in no hurry to end the battle, playing with me like house-cats with a ball of yarn.

Distracted as we were, none of us saw Martin wake up and assess the situation. I heard him shout “Alix, DOWN!” and dropped to the ground, just in time before a powerful shard of ice hit the two bandits. One fell dead immediately, the other was floored by a second attack.

As I stood up, brushing the frost off my clothing, Martin swung himself down from the horse. He looked as pale and shaken as he had in the library, but his first concern was for me. “Are you all right? Who were they?”

“I'm fine, thanks to you. They were just bandits. High on skooma. They weren't after us in particular. Any 'rich' travellers would do.”

“That's a shame.” Martin's answer didn't seem to match what I'd said, his speech tailing off with fatigue. He walked over to the bodies, and examined them closely. I was surprised how readily he'd killed, rather than simply disabling the bandits until we'd passed. Actually, I was surprised at the strength of his Destruction magic – it didn't seem like one of the usual specialisms for a priest.

He stood looking at them for some time, running his hands through his hair as if thinking. Finally he nodded, having come to a conclusion. “I hate that we had to kill them, but we had no choice. If we'd left them frozen and run, they would have simply preyed upon the next set of travellers to come this way.” He paused for a moment. “Help me move them out of the road.”

Normally I wouldn't care less about the corpse of an enemy who'd tried to kill me, but he was right: the road was narrow and they were in the way. I assisted him in moving the two bandits to the bushes at the side of the road, noticing he was far more careful than I would ever be. Then he knelt down and prayed by each one, “Akatosh bless you and keep you.”

I thought that perhaps he had lost his mind. “They were bandits! They tried to kill us!” I yelled.

“Yes?” he replied, mildly. “They were still people. Even if they chose to sin. I would be remiss in my duties as a priest if I spared them the proper rites, simply because they sinned against us.”

Somewhat hysterical, I laughed, though Martin looked reproachful. I covered my embarrassment with a cough. “Uh... We should talk about your religion sometime. But not now. There are probably more sinners on the road, and it's still at least an hour to Skingrad.” 

Martin nodded and said no more, simply climbing back onto the horse. I joined him, and gradually my adrenaline from the fight ebbed away. Now I was starting to feel sleepy too, and wanted conversation to help keep me awake.

“Martin? I had no idea you knew how to fight!”

“I wasn't always a priest,” he told me, falling back to sleep even as he said it. How helpful.

* * *

We arrived at Skingrad without further event. Riding into Grateful Pass Stables, I handed Tilmo a few septims, and bade him care for Prior Maborel's horse. Martin was groggy, and barely able to walk in a straight line, so I offered him my arm to lead him up to the city gates. With the priest swaying as if drunk, my clothes splashed with blood, and both of us covered in ash and reeking of brimstone, I was not in the least bit surprised when the guards peered at us suspiciously.

“We've come from Kvatch,” I explained.

“They say daedra have overrun the city!” exclaimed one of the guards.

“They did. But we managed to close the Oblivion Gate. Now there's nothing left but burned-out buildings and refugees. My friend's been looking after the survivors, and he really needs to get some rest.”

The guard peered at Martin more closely, taking in his pallor, fatigue, and trembling; then nodded. Unsure of what to say that would be appropriate, he merely opened the gate without words, ushering us in with a gesture.

On that night, I made no attempt to go near the Skingrad Mages Guild. The last thing I needed was to deal with the clashing egos and temper tantrums of the various mages inside. Instead, I steered Martin towards the West Weald Inn – a conveniently short stagger from the city gates. As a regular visitor to Sinderion, the Master Alchemist who inexplicably lived in the basement, I knew the inn would be open until late. I also knew that Erina Jeranus, the publican, was used to mages and would not think too oddly of our attire. She would probably assume that we had been experimenting with Destruction spells in a cave overrun by monsters, _again_. That wasn't so far from the truth, after all.

The bar area was packed, but I managed to catch Erina's eye fairly easily.

 _“_ Welcome to the West Weald Inn. Oh! It's you, young Alix! I barely recognised you.” She raised an eyebrow at our appearances, but said nothing more.

“It's been a very difficult couple of days,” I admitted. “We need a room with two beds, and something to eat. Perhaps we could take our meal in our room?”

Martin was very nearly dead on his feet, leaning heavily on me for support. But his eyes widened at the mention of food, and he flailed frantically with his free arm. “Please, nothing with meat in,” he begged. “I couldn't stand the smell right now.”

Erina looked even more confused, but she continued as if this were an entirely normal sort of request. “Two bowls of vegetable stew, then? Go up to the top floor, first door on the right.” I handed over a little more money than was due, and she nodded briskly to dismiss us.

Glad of my Fortify Strength spell, I hauled the priest in the direction of the staircase, and all but pushed him up the two flights of stairs. When we got to our room, I discovered it was one of the nicest in the house: two decent beds, comfortable chairs, a wardrobe, and a writing desk. Martin collapsed onto a chair with his head down on the desk. I thought about making conversation, but had no idea what to say. What could you possibly say to a person after he'd seen his home city destroyed, hundreds of people killed, found out that he's the heir to the throne, and to top it all off _,_ that the attack on Kvatch was aimed solely at him...? Not a lot, really.

Fortunately, our food came quickly: a couple of steaming hot bowls of stew, with reasonably-fresh bread. The smell was tantalising, and I quickly got started. Martin seemed determined to sleep through the meal.

“Martin?” I asked, after a few minutes. “When did you last eat?”

“Uhhh?” came the reply.

“Food. When did you last have some?”

“Um, this morning. An apple.”

“Well, seeing as that was more than half a day ago and there's hot food here now, I think you should eat it. Or do I have to come over there and feed you?”

Martin groaned, zombie-like, but lifted his head slightly and swallowed a mouthful of the stew. Then, as if surprised by the flavour, he sat up properly, and ate the rest of the meal rapidly. I let him have most of the bread – he was clearly famished, poor soul – and he wiped it around the inside of his bowl until there were no drops of stew left.

I cleared our bowls away, and announced that I was going down to the privy. “Do you need me to bring back anything from the bar?”

“No, no, I'm fine”, Martin assured me.

I went to the privy, and then to the washroom. I scrubbed myself all over with soap, getting through several bucketfuls of water in my attempts to remove the ash, dust, and demonic stench. Eventually, I concluded that my skin, hair, and robe were all as clean as they were going to get, and went back to the bedroom. Unsurprisingly, Martin was fast asleep on one of the beds, fully dressed apart from his boots. I pulled the blanket over him, hung my clothes up to air by the window, blew out the candle, and went to sleep myself.

* * *

I was awakened in the middle of the night by the sound of someone crying out “No! No, please, no!” Casting a quick Light spell, I saw Martin tossing and turning in the throes of a nightmare. Somehow, he'd managed to shout loudly enough to wake me up, and yet not wake up himself. I threw on my robe, and touched his shoulder lightly. Before I could shake him awake, he grabbed my wrist with a vice-like grip, strong enough to hurt, and screamed, “Oleta! The city's on fire, we have to get everyone into the Chapel! Daedra can't stand on holy ground!”

“Gods' blood, Martin!” I yelled back. “You're having a nightmare! It's not real! Wake up!”

His eyes flicked open, and he stared at me: terrified and hyperventilating. “It's... not real? Then why can I still smell the daedra? The smell... oh gods, the _blood_. So much blood!” He buried his face in his hands.

“Shhh,” I breathed, wondering if there was anything in my training to help me deal with a hysterical priest who'd clearly had to be strong for too long, and now desperately needed some time to recover from his own trauma. My innate reaction was to hug him tightly, but I'd already had to touch him far too much for his own comfort that day. Was he always shy of physical contact, or was it _only_ because I was a near-stranger? Or was it more that he had spent almost three days in close proximity of two dozen people who needed all the comfort and healing he could give? When phrased that way, his discomfort seemed obvious.

We were back to the problem of there being no quick magical fix for a broken heart. Martin was a powerful healer: if he'd known a way to block deep emotional distress, he would have done so; for the people of Kvatch if not himself. I didn't know where to find a better healer (though I suspected we might have left her in Kvatch), but I _did_ know where to find someone who could help to distract Martin from his pain.

“Martin,” I said, “I know the people in this inn. You've trusted me so far – can you trust me to help you with this nightmare?”

He looked up, panting, then nodded; unable, or unwilling to speak.

“Do you think you can walk as far as the basement? My friend Sinderion lives there. He's an alchemist – he might have a potion that will help you sleep.”

He closed his eyes and winced at some remembered pain. “ _Nothing_ helps with my dreams!” 

I had no idea what he meant, but he was shivering violently, drenched in sweat, and at the very least needed a hot bath. Which he wouldn't get in the inn's own washroom, not this late at night. Martin shook so hard that he started to retch, and that focused my mind – it had taken so much effort to get food into him that I didn't want him to throw up. I heaved the anguished man to his feet, guided him down two sets of stairs, and hammered wildly on the high elf's door. “Sinderion! Open up! It's me, Alix! I need your help!”

When he didn't answer within a couple of minutes, I closed my eyes and cast an Open Lock spell, manipulating the pins in my mind. The lock clicked into place, and I pushed the door open.

Sinderion was just coming to see what the fuss was about, bleary-eyed in a nightgown. “Alix de Feu! Is there any need for you to knock loudly enough to wake the dead?”

“Yes, there is,” I replied. On the way to the basement I'd been thinking of the shortest possible way to get through this conversation. Martin was still shuddering, and he clung tightly to me as we descended the third staircase. “This man and I came from Kvatch. He has been tending to survivors for three days and he's exhausted. He needs some way to get through the night without nightmares. If you help him, I'll answer all the questions you have.”

“Ah.” As I'd expected, the Altmer, initially irritated by my rudeness, was now peering at Martin with scientific curiosity. The priest was grey-faced, his breath coming in increasingly desperate gasps, and I gently set him down on the floor with his head between his knees. The thought of not offering any comfort to a person in the middle of a panic attack made _me_ distressed, so I knelt beside him, stroking his hair lightly, hoping it wouldn't upset him further.

Sinderion crossed the room and returned with a small glass containing an amber potion. “Drink this,” he told Martin, who showed no signs of even hearing him. After a moment, Sinderion sighed, and took over stroking Martin's hair from me. “Sit upright,” he said, right into his ear. “Curling up tightly won't help you breathe.”

The priest raised his head – out of shock as much as anything else – and Sinderion tipped the liquid down his throat. I would never have dared that for fear of making him choke, but it worked. Martin gave a little “Oh!” of surprise, and sat up straighter. He was still wheezing, but his breaths came easier.

“What _was_ that?” I asked, thinking that whatever the potion was, I'd need to learn how to make it.

“Brandy,” replied Sinderion, absently, attention fixed on his patient. Martin's colour had improved, though his head remained bowed. He leaned against me for support, trusting without words that I would remain seated on the floor for as long as he needed me. Given everything that had happened, and that I _was_ still a stranger, his faith in me was moving.

The Altmer spoke to him again. “Let me guess. Your magicka is drained by having been forced to cast too many Restoration spells in a short time, and your memory is plagued by bitter memories. Am I right?”

Martin nodded. His breathing rate was almost back to normal, but I assumed he didn't trust his voice not to crack or break.

“I can help you. But not with Alchemy. Most sleeping draughts make you dream _more_ , so a potion would be the worst thing for someone trapped in reliving horror. First, you need to wash that daedric stink off your body so you're not constantly reminding yourself of it. While you do that, I'll talk to Alix.”

Sinderion snapped his fingers, and a large cauldron filled with water. He waved his hands, and a pile of firewood rearranged itself under the cauldron. Even under the circumstances, I found myself grinning with delight, having never mastered _that_ degree of Telekinesis. Then he tossed a couple of Fireballs at the wood, until it burned steadily.

“Soap,” he said, “And, ah... some fragranced oil. I make it myself, out of mountain flowers. You may appreciate it.”

He placed these items, along with several towels and a clean robe, on the floor in front of the priest. After a few minutes, the cauldron was gently steaming. Martin had finally stopped shaking, and now glanced up.

“Are you okay?” I asked, quietly.

“Yes,” he whispered, stretching his aching limbs. I stood up and helped him struggle to his feet, then lightly pushed him in the direction of the cauldron full of hot water.

“Um,” said Martin, cheeks flushing red. “Do you expect me to, uh, strip off and wash in front of you?”

“Oh no,” Sinderion replied. “Your clothes are as filthy as the rest of you. You can go in fully dressed.” Nonetheless, he cast another Telekinesis spell at a screen that partitioned his laboratory from the rest of his underground room. It shuffled across to more than cover Martin and his blushes (why was I disappointed?). We heard a splash and a groan as the tired priest dowsed himself in warm water. Sinderion made a pot of tea, and we sat quietly for a few moments drinking it, with the sounds of washing as our only accompaniment.

The Altmer broke the silence. Now that the immediate emergency was over, his curiosity took over - and he had _a lot_ of questions to ask.

“So! I thought I knew all your friends. How do you come to be travelling with a priest from Kvatch who is the living embodiment of the young Uriel Septim?”

Blood drained from my face. “That thing you just said... Never repeat it to anyone.”

“Oh, I won't. Everyone knows that I'm just crazy Sinderion who lives in the cellar. The Master Alchemist who's too strange and dangerous even for the _Mages Guild_. The _Skingrad_ Mages Guild, which takes quite some doing. Now, I'll ask you again. How do you come to be travelling...”

I waved my hand and interrupted him. “That would be a shockingly long story, but – you being who you are – and on the proviso that this never leaves your cellar, I'll tell you.” So I did. The whole tale, starting with the jail cell and Uriel Septim. After a while, I became aware of Martin on the other side of the partition, listening as well. I realised it was the first time _he'd_ heard the full story, too.

Eventually, I had brought everyone up to date. “So, let me get this straight. You have to take this priest boy to Chorrol, to meet _another_ priest, who will give him the Amulet of Kings, get him crowned Emperor, and then stop the daedra?” Martin's destiny sounded terrifying when condensed to that.

Emerging from behind the screen in Sinderion's spare robe, the man in question chose to focus on something entirely different. “I'm not a boy,” said Martin, joining us on the sofa. “I'm thirty-three.”

“Dear boy!” declared the elf. “When you're over a hundred and fifty, like me, thirty-three will indeed seem like childhood!” Martin was taken aback, while Sinderion nodded, happily. I knew the priest wasn't used to dealing with the Master Alchemist, whose thoughts were so far ahead of everyone else's that he seemed insane, so did the only thing I could. I poured him a cup of tea. Martin nodded his thanks, wrapping both trembling hands firmly around the cup so as not to drop it.

While we busied ourselves with social niceties, Sinderion's brain was reaching a conclusion. “Well, it seems obvious that in order for any of this to happen, you need a way to keep Martin sane throughout his traumatic hauntings. And I have just the thing!”

Martin blinked. “I've had nightmares for years. Nothing seems to help. Are you telling me that you know of some sort of Restoration spell that would let me sleep peacefully?”

“Oh, not Restoration.” Sinderion shook his head. “Alix! How is your Illusion skill?”

“I got top marks in my exams for my last two years as an Apprentice,” I admitted. Did Martin seem impressed?

“In that case, I can teach you a modified version of the Calm spell which, instead of preventing opponents from attacking you _physically_ , will prevent dreams from attacking your friend. How does that sound?”

“Excellent!” I exclaimed. “How long will it take me to learn it?”

“Oh, about five minutes.”

Ten minutes later, we were thanking Sinderion and heading back upstairs. I reflected on the last thing he'd said, which was “Keep the perfume, you'll probably need it again. Oh! And, your Majesty, if you find yourself in need of an Imperial potion-maker, do bear me in mind, yes?” Martin had been oddly diplomatic.


	8. In Search of Healing, or Peace.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Martin and Alix visit the Great Chapel of Julianos, go shopping for underwear, are spooked by a Daedric Prince, and visit one of Alix's old friends.

I slept until nearly noon, and woke to find Martin missing, with a note on his bed. It said, simply “Gone to the Chapel. M.” in unusually neat writing. Well, I supposed it seemed reasonable for a priest who was having a theological – and indeed, _life_ – crisis to pray about it. I collected together our possessions, unsure if we'd be returning to the inn, and set out. On the way, I popped into the Mages Guild to brew as many potions as I could with the ingredients I had (principally Healing and Restore Magicka), sold off those that I didn't think I needed, and acquired some fresh bread, cheese, and apples. I wasn't sure how long Martin's abhorrence for meat would last, and I didn't want to make him feel any sicker than he already felt.

The Great Chapel of Julianos was easy to find, being one of the major landmarks of Skingrad. I'd been there a few times, in search of healing, or peace. A tall Gothic building with a tower and stained-glass windows, it was probably very similar in appearance to the Chapel in Kvatch, before it had been attacked. No doubt _uncomfortably_ familiar for Martin.

Not being a great visitor to churches, I wasn't exactly sure how busy they got – but there were rather more worshippers than I thought usual for a weekday lunchtime. Presumably the word about Kvatch had spread, so people were praying to the Nine for lost relatives and friends, and for Skingrad to be spared the same daedric horror. Sad how many people forget about their religion except at times of peril. I, on the other hand, had never been hugely religious – though I firmly believed in the existence of the Nine Divines, and increasingly in the Daedric Princes. How could you not believe in them when they were so obviously present in Nirn?

I found Martin where I expected him to be – prostrate in front of the altar of Akatosh. His eyes were closed, with lips moving rapidly in prayer. He seemed entirely engrossed in his devotions, so I moved to a nearby pew to give him space. After some time, the priest of Julianos, Brother Tumindil, who'd been circulating around the chapel, came over to me.

“Blessings of the Nine,” he said, “Erm... Do you happen to know that young man who's been praying to Akatosh all morning?”

“All morning?” I asked. “What time did he get here?”

“Well, he's been there for at least two hours. I didn't like to disturb him, but he seems in some genuine distress, and I thought that perhaps I, as a priest, should offer some comfort...”

“He's a priest himself,” I explained. “We came from Kvatch. I believe he's currently feeling rather tortured by his god.”

“Ah,” said Tumindil. “That would make some sense. Is there anything I could do to help?”

“I'm not sure. I was planning to wait until he's finished arguing with the gods. I suppose it depends on whether they send any thunderbolts to smite him. If they do, I might have to go and intercede. That seems to be my job this week.”

The Altmer priest looked uncomfortable, unsure if I was joking; but about then, Martin rose from the floor onto his knees, and rubbed his face, hard. He gazed around, vaguely, before noticing my presence. After a few moments he stretched, got up, and walked over, moving stiffly as if in some lingering physical pain.

Tumindil smiled at Martin, and might have patted his shoulder in comfort; but it was clear that any relief his fellow priest had received from his prayer had been short-lived. He was demonstrably nervous, unable to stop his eyes darting to the corners of the room, searching for any perceived threat. I'd said nothing to explain why a priest was leaving his flock at a time of great crisis, and the Altmer must have wondered what was going on. 

Instead, Tumindil said, “Blessings to you, brother. I'm sorry for your terrible loss. If there's anything I can do...?”

Martin shook his head, sadly. “Pray for the people of Kvatch,” he replied, his voice cracking. “I don't need anything for myself.” He turned away, as if to leave.

If that wasn't actually prevarication, it was certainly stretching the truth. “Wait,” I said. Martin glanced back over his shoulder, unsure why I'd stopped. “Pray for Martin, the servant of Akatosh,” I told Brother Tumindil. “I can't tell you why, but the Nine already know.”

“I will intercede on your behalf, and for all the people of Kvatch,” said the priest, solemnly, pleased to be given a concrete task.

* * *

On the way out of the Chapel I asked, “Are you injured?” I hadn't noticed anything the previous day, but now Martin definitely seemed to be limping.

“Oh!” He blushed. “It's nothing. Saddle sores. I've done my best already, and I... I can't bother the chapel healer with those.”

“Can't, or don't want to?” He shook his head, unwilling to answer. “Look, I don't wish to embarrass you, but we do have an entire afternoon's riding ahead of us. If you need to get some better protection for your backside, then we can stop at the blacksmiths', or the general goods store.”

Martin stopped in his tracks and turned to face me, anguish in his eyes. “What use is _that?_ I have all of two septims to my name.”

He was, no doubt, soon to gain a Septim _in_ his name, but I wasn't going to speak of that in Skingrad city centre. Instead I smiled, lightly, as if it wasn't costing me any effort. “I have some money. I went to the Mages' Guild earlier, brewed a lot of potions, and sold off the ones I didn't need. I can lend you enough for now.”

“But I... I _never_ have more than a few coins. I took a vow of poverty...”

That was something else that was likely to change if he were confirmed as the Emperor's heir, and Martin's shocked expression showed me he knew it too. He shook his head in denial just as he had in the library under the Chapel of Akatosh, floppy hair flying.

I put my hand on his shoulder. “Martin. Take the money. _Someone else_ can pay me back later.”

Giving up, he nodded, and ducked into the doorway of Hammer and Tongs. A moment later, he returned, bright red. “It's a _woman_ blacksmith!” he gasped.

“Yes, Nord women are blacksmiths too, you know.” Agnete might have been female under her smithing apron, but she was more into quaffing ale and shouting about Talos than most of the Nord men I knew. Mind you, the Nords I knew were mostly mages.

“It's not that. I can't... get measured... for _pants_ by a _woman_.” He was so embarrassed, barely even able to get through the sentence, that I wondered whether he'd also taken a vow of chastity.

“Try Colovian Traders, then. Gunder's a little on the sleazy side, but only in terms of overcharging.” I grinned. Martin's modesty was so endearing.

The priest was gone a fair bit longer this time. I knew he was safe since I waited outside the shop, but I was just beginning to be concerned when he came out, walking oddly in a _different_ way. “Linen riding breeches,” he told me. “They have padding in the right places. I... or _someone_... must owe you fifteen septims now.”

“Don't worry about it,” I replied, genuinely amused. “Remember, I got into this mess because someone tried to shake me down for _fifty_ septims. Fifteen is nothing by comparison.”

Martin was still discomfited, but that was all the reference we could make to wider events in public. Instead, he nodded. We walked back to the stable in a companionable silence.

* * *

I opted to ride back to Weynon Priory along a similar off-road route to the one I'd taken to get to Kvatch. It felt like a week ago, even though it was only three days. Martin was dozing on horseback again, which hardly surprised me – the six or so hours of disturbed sleep he'd had could hardly have been enough to compensate for three days with barely any rest. Suddenly he woke up, looking around anxiously for threats. I felt his body tense before he spoke.

“Alix?” he said, quietly. “Is that... Am I right in thinking that's the Shrine of Sanguine over there?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Is that a problem?”

“Um...” I couldn't see Martin's face, but the catch in his voice and the way he hunched in on himself screamed discomfort. “I would really prefer if we could avoid it.”

I turned Prior Maborel's horse to the east. Going more than a couple of miles out of our way would mean either riding back through Hackdirt, which I generally regarded as only marginally less awful than having to pass through another Oblivion Gate; or ending up in annoyingly steep ground, where we would lose lots of time with hills and valleys. Unsure of my mount's ability, I was unwilling to go that route; not least of all because the only time I'd ever cast Restoration spells on a horse's twisted ankle, it had depleted my entire pool of magicka _and_ my entire stock of potions.

Once we were safely clear of the Shrine, I commented, “So. Why's a priest of Akatosh scared of the Shrine of Sanguine?” My tone was light, conversational, an open door inviting him in.

Martin slammed that metaphorical door shut. “I'm not scared!” he all-but-shouted back at me, the tone of his voice belying his words. “Not... _scared_ ,” he went on more quietly. “I just think we should avoid daedra worshippers. Given what we've already seen.”

Something was definitely wrong, and he wasn't willing to tell me about it. I suspected that as a religious man, he couldn't lie easily. But his words, his tone, his _posture_... All of them hinted at some dark secret. The most obvious one that sprang to mind was that he'd been a worshipper of a Daedric Prince himself once. I tried to imagine this haggard, careworn man as a youthful follower of Sanguine, and just couldn't. The carousing, the debauchery... the hedonistic orgies. I couldn't see Martin as that sort of person. It must be one of the other Princes, although that didn't explain his strong reaction to the Shrine of Sanguine.

Gods, what if Martin _himself_ had worshipped Mehrunes Dagon? Gorge rose in my throat until I feared I would fall off the horse vomiting. I tried to take deep, calming breaths while my mind played back pictures of the horrors in Kvatch. And I had come in only near the end, once everyone who was to die already lay dead.

I talk when I'm nervous. It's probably obvious from this manuscript, and even more so in person. I was afraid, and I had to test Martin. “Hmm... I don't think what happened in Kvatch had anything to do with Sanguine, though. Your father said the Prince of _Destruction_. Which Daedric Prince is that?” I knew the answer. Jauffre had told me.

Martin responded with a violent shudder, but didn't answer my question. Instead, he mumbled, “My... _father_...? I'm sorry. It's just that my father... Well, the man I _thought_ was my father died years ago. And now you're telling me he wasn't really my father at all. I... I don't know what to think.”

He went silent, brooding, and I patted him comfortingly on the shoulder. His sadness made me want to cuddle him, but I had to content myself with the brief touches as my arms brushed against his sides. I was being paranoid. There was no way this damaged man had ever worshipped Mehrunes Dagon. We rode around the Jone Stone, and turned west towards Weatherleah.

* * *

Martin's fatigue – and, to be honest, my own – made me stop at my friends' home. It was halfway between Skingrad and Weynon Priory, mid-afternoon, and I thought we could both do with a hot drink and the privy. I was also worried about the strain we were placing on Prior Maborel's horse, despite my Fortify Strength and Feather spells, and thought she could do with the chance to graze for a while.

When I reined in the mare and dismounted, Martin woke up and looked around in confusion. “Is _this_ Weynon Priory?”

“No,” I replied. “It's a farm called Weatherleah. It's owned by a couple of friends of mine. I thought you might appreciate a cup of tea and the chance to pee somewhere that isn't behind a bush.”

Martin's brief smile told me that I was right. Was that really the first smile I'd ever seen from him?

“I'm not sure if anyone's around, though. If they're not in, I'll just open the door with magic.”

“Alix!” He touched my arm, appearing shocked. “Is this a thing you _do_ , breaking into your friends' houses when they're not around?”

“Sure.” I shrugged. “They'd offer me a spare key, but what's the point when I have an Open Lock spell already?”

“I'm just not sure I'm comfortable with it. It seems a bit rude.”

“Oh, I always leave a note to say I've been round. Often I leave other things, like books or potions. So it works both ways.”

Martin shook his head, too tired to continue the argument any longer. I knocked on the door, and heard thumping from inside as someone ran down the stairs. Guilbert Jemane poked his head out. “Alix de Feu, as I live and breathe!”

“Hi Guil!” I said. “I've been travelling cross-country. Any chance of a drink?”

“Not a problem,” replied Guil. “What news?”

“Oh,” I said. “All the news. Let us in and I'll tell you everything.”

Guil bowed us in. “Who's your friend?”

“His name's Martin. He's a priest, and I'm taking him to Weynon Priory.”

“Ah. Pleased to meet you, Martin.” Guil nodded at the priest.

“Likewise.” They shook hands, all formality. I was pleased it was Guil who was in, and not his often-drunk twin Reynald, whose manners were... somewhat more lackadaisical.

While Guil brewed tea and offered around cake, and for some time afterwards, I told him what had transpired over the past few days. As with my fellow mage students I left out the parts involving the Emperor, and especially Martin's real identity. It wasn't that I distrusted Guil, not in the slightest. But I knew he would tell his brother everything, and knew too that Rey had a habit of public intoxication. It didn't take much imagination to picture him blurting out state secrets to complete strangers.

“So,” said Guil. “Are you leaving for Chorrol right away?”

“As soon as we get saddled up again. Why?”

“Oh, I was thinking I should visit Rey in the city. He hasn't been home for a while, and I thought I should check to make sure he's eating. At least, getting _some_ of his calories from food. I could ride with you.”

Martin had been sitting in the corner of the room with his eyes closed, but upon hearing this, glanced over appraisingly. He took in the large warhammer on Guilbert's back. “Do you know how to use that weapon?” he asked.

Guil smiled, disarmingly. “We're not fighters; Alix has more skill than either my brother or myself.”

“He means yes,” I explained, to save a long conversation.

“Then I have no objection. To Weynon Priory, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There may well be a long gap between this chapter being published and the next. I'm getting to the part of the story which needs considerable reworking, and I'll need to edit the next six or seven chapters before I'm certain that Chapter 9 is good to go. Of course, the advantage of this is that you'll get a huge chunk of story all at once.


	9. “Guard Martin with your life!”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alix, Martin, and Guilbert arrive at Weynon Priory to find it under attack by the Mythic Dawn; and Alix is seriously unimpressed with Jauffre's organisational skills.

Fed and watered, the journey to Chorrol passed with only minor incident; that being a boar which decided to charge Guil's horse. I hit it with a Flash Bolt, making it run away squealing, and smelling of bacon. We made good time, arriving before sunset, and rode into North Country Stables. I was just about to tie up the horses before walking down to the Priory, when Martin stopped me.

“Can you smell... fire?” His expression was grim. My heart sank as I realised the burning smell came from downhill.

“I can,” Guil said. “What does it mean?”

“It means that I need you to guard Martin with your life while I scout ahead."

Guil looked at Martin in confusion. “Are you his lover?” he asked.

“I only met the man two days ago!” I yelled, far too quickly. Damn Guil to Oblivion for noticing the way my eyes lingered on the priest. Even so drained as to look ten years older than the thirty-three he'd claimed, Martin was attractive: piercing blue eyes, thick brown hair, voice far too sexy considering his vocation... Oh, and heir to the throne. _Damn_.

“Oh, sorry,” mumbled Guil, as Martin and I stared at him. “I've just never heard Alix say anything like that before. You must be someone really important. But he said you were only a priest, so I assumed...”

I interrupted him. “It's too long a story to explain right now. I have a bad feeling about this. Look after each other.”

I set off down the hill, but travelled barely a few yards before running into Eronor, the Dunmer who looked after the Priory's sheep. Recognising me, he grabbed me by both arms and shrieked “Help! You must help! They're killing everyone at Weynon Priory!”

“Slow down, man!” I said. “What happened?”

“I don't know! I think they're right behind me! Prior Maborel is dead!”

“Well, then, _who_ is attacking?”

“I was in the sheepfold when they attacked. I heard the Prior talking to someone. Looked around the corner to see who it was. They looked like travellers, ordinary. Suddenly weapons appeared in their hands and they cut the Prior down before he could move! They saw me watching and I ran.” He panted, out of breath from running and hysteria.

“Listen to me, Eronor. This is very important. Were they wearing red robes with weird black armour over the top?”

“Yes!”

I needn't have bothered asking because as soon Eronor answered, a woman in the uniform of the Emperor's assassins appeared behind him. I guessed that her Chameleon spell had just worn off. She hit the elf with her Bound Mace and he collapsed to the floor screaming – I hoped only in panic. With no time to draw my sword, I reacted instinctively as she charged towards me. Sparks flew from my right hand; the inadequacy of this apparent attack making her laugh. She immediately cast a powerful Bound Shield to counter the flames, concentrating hard on the difficult spell and using up most of her magicka in the process. Thus she missed the opportunity to block the Disintegrate Armour spell that I threw towards her, followed immediately by a large Fireball. The attack burst straight through the conjured shield, engulfing her in fire. Only a small amount of damage to her Bound Armour was necessary since she had no magicka left to replace it. She dropped to the ground, writhing in pain as the armour tore away, leaving her in feeble robes which burned along with her flesh. The body that was left behind would have been a not unattractive young Nord, were she not partially incinerated.

At some point during that fight, Guilbert and Martin had appeared behind me, with weapons in their hands. Guil and I helped Eronor up from the floor while Martin crouched down to bless the burned corpse. He knew as well as I did that it would make little difference to her fate, since most daedra worshippers promised their souls to their Daedric Prince; but I think it was a comfort for him to do it.

Eronor shrank back from the two men, despite their obvious lack of red robes. However Martin touched him lightly on the shoulder, restoring his stamina, and said, “I think we should find your friend Jauffre at once.”

“I agree. Eronor, where is Jauffre?” I asked.

“I don't know. In the Chapel praying, I think. What should I _do_?”

“Run to Chorrol and alert the guards. We may need their help.”

As Eronor escaped, I glanced at the others. Faces grim, we rushed down the hill together; Martin only just behind Guil and I despite his long robes and sedentary lifestyle. We came upon Brother Piner, desperately fighting against two more assassins. Screeching like a Nord berserker instead of the small Breton that he was, Guil swung his warhammer against one while Martin launched Ice Bolts at the other. I dived into the middle and pulled out Brother Piner. Somewhat the worse for wear, and coughing up blood, he needed as much Restoration energy as I could give simply to keep him alive; proper healing would have to wait until the battle was over.

Leaving the dazed monk propped against the low wall, we ran for the Chapel. Alarmingly short on magicka, and wishing I'd had time to collect some potions from my saddlebags, I chanted a Fortify Magicka spell on the way. Bursting in through the door, we saw Jauffre fighting with _three_ red-robed attackers. The elderly Blade was swinging a two-handed Akaviri katana with surprising skill, but he was tiring fast. I nodded at my friends; by unspoken agreement, Guil took the assassin at the back, Martin attacked the one on Jauffre's right, whereas I flanked Jauffre's left. “You're back. Thank Talos!” declared the monk; a little prematurely, I felt.

With so many people fighting in an enclosed space, I couldn't really see what the others were doing: which is why it made sense to keep our warhammer wielder well out of the way. Afraid of hitting my friends accidentally with ranged Destruction spells, I drew my sword, casting a powerful Frost Shield in case any of Martin's attacks went astray; although he seemed to have switched to an enchanted dagger himself. Not Cyrodiil's leading expert in sharp weapons, my intention was simply to get the assassin to poke at me, hitting my armour or warding spell, rather than the elderly monk, who was wearing only a rough-spun robe. I could see that if I was able to keep Jauffre alive, he would do a better job at dispatching the enemy than me.

The fight passed in a blur of arms, legs, and weapons; and I was leaning over trying to get my breath back when Jauffre started to speak again. “They attacked without warning. I was praying in the Chapel when I heard Prior Maborel shout. I had just time to arm myself.”

Martin straightened up and I saw him make eye contact with Jauffre for the first time. An inexplicable emotion appeared on his face; I thought it might be fear, but that didn't make sense. “You! _You're_ Jauffre of the Blades? I thought you were just another of my father... _adopted_ father's farming friends.”

“Yes, I'm Jauffre, my lord. Welcome to Weynon Priory.”

“You knew who I was and you didn't tell me! You didn't tell me _anything_!” Martin sounded like an impetuous child. I could imagine him stamping his feet in a tantrum. He seemed to be shaking, far more than usual for post-battle fatigue.

“I'm sorry, my lord, it was for your own safety.” Jauffre said, consolingly.

The priest stared directly at the monk. Something was going on beneath the surface of their words, but my two days' companionship with Martin had not given me the key to the hidden message. Guil glanced at me, asking silently, “Do _you_ know what's going on here?”. I shook my head in reply, unwilling to interrupt the drama.

Martin swallowed, hard. “So am I right in assuming that my fa... the Emperor knew _all about me_?” Each of those last three words were emphasised.

“Yes, my lord, he did.”

Martin shuddered. What was left of the colour in his face drained, and he sat down, heavily. His head dropped into his hands. His behaviour suggested that he and Jauffre had met before, but it also hinted at some sort of dark secret. The same secret as before, or a different one? I had no idea.

Jauffre sprang up. “The Amulet of Kings! I fear that was the target of this attack. I kept it in a secret room in Weynon House. We need to go see if it is safe.”

Martin showed no sign of moving, so I waved Guil off. “Go with Jauffre. Check there's no more assassins about!”

After they left, I sat on the pew next to Martin. I reached out to pat him on the arm, but he twitched away convulsively. “Don't touch me!”

I was shocked. Both the volume and tone of his words were violent, quite unlike anything I'd heard from him thus far. Eventually I asked, “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No,” he stated, bitterly. “There is nothing that anyone can do to help _now_.”

I didn't get the chance to ask what he meant, because suddenly Jauffre and Guil were returning. “They've taken it! The Amulet of Kings is gone! The enemy has defeated us at every turn!”

I glanced at Martin. He was silent, withdrawn, hands still covering his face. With heavy irony in my voice I said, “Not _every_ turn. Martin is safe, for now.”

Jauffre nodded. “So it has not all gone against us. Thank Talos for that! We've lost the Amulet of Kings but gained Uriel's heir.”

“Uriel's heir...?” muttered Guil. “You mean _he_ 's...”

“Don't say it!” I interrupted. “Walls have ears. And you must swear not to tell your brother about this, not until the crisis is over.”

Guil's eyes were wide, but he nodded once in understanding.

Jauffre blathered on. “Martin cannot stay here. We have driven them off, but they will be back once they learn of his survival. Which they will. We should leave at once.”

“Leave?!” I wondered if Jauffre was naturally insane, or if he'd been driven so by the attack. Martin was still slumped on the wooden bench, shivering. Was he only in shock, or injured as well? His robe was stained with blood – was any of it his own? Brother Piner was outside the chapel somewhere, badly hurt and needing urgent treatment. How could we leave without making any preparations? If this was how the Grandmaster of the Blades operated, then there was a serious issue in their leadership.

Just then, the doors to the chapel burst open. Jauffre's hand shot to the hilt of his sword as I gathered magicka to attack; but it was only Eronor returning with the Chorrol City Guards that I'd requested. Two of them were supporting Brother Piner, whose face was grey.

“Jauffre,” I explained. “We can't leave now. We have injured men to treat and a dead man to bury. And do you have enough provisions for a long trip?” He shook his head. “I didn't think so. If we leave now, in this state, it'll be suicide.”

Guil started briefing the guards. Naturally gifted in speechcraft, I knew he would tell them a pack of half-truths sufficient to reassure their minds that we were innocent of any crime, along with whatever they needed to know in order to keep the townsfolk safe. I hoped the City Guards would also arrange disposal of the red-robed attackers' bodies. Jauffre oversaw the removal of Brother Piner to bed in Weynon House, along with several healing potions. Unwilling to trust anyone else, I carried Martin upstairs myself, casting Fortify Strength and Feather spells to let me manage alone. He was conscious, but only just; pale, and unresponsive. A gash on his back was bleeding profusely, but I couldn't believe that alone was making him so shocky.

Guil had persuaded a few of the more enthusiastic guards to stay at the Priory, in case we were attacked again. Clasping a cloth against Martin's back to try to stop the bleeding, I drafted Eronor and the guards into fetching buckets of water, which I sterilised by careful aim of a Flame spell. One of the earliest things you learn in magical first aid is that you only use Restoration magic once all the dirt and grit has been washed out of the wound, otherwise it will heal with the foreign objects still inside, which can cause worse damage later in time. My healing of Brother Piner earlier had been quick and dirty to save his life. Now the real work would begin.

I made sure that everyone had washed their hands and arms with hot water and soap, then we started to treat the injured. Eronor himself had only superficial scratches, but I still insisted that they were cleaned properly. It then took little persuasion to get Eronor to wash his beloved Brother Piner's injuries, while I dealt with Martin. He didn't resist as I removed his robe, rolling him onto his side and checking his body carefully for any blood loss that could explain his pallor. Nothing, apart from the one bad cut that I'd already seen: but it was much worse than it had seemed through his clothes. Focused as I was on inspecting the... by the gods, _Emperor_ , I hadn't noticed Guil slip out. Though I _did_ notice the sudden bright flash of Restoration magic from the other side of the room.

Somehow, in the time I'd been tending the patients, Guil had dashed to the Temple of Stendarr in Chorrol, returning with our horses, supplies, and the Chapel healer. Thank the Nine for quick-thinking friends, since I wasn't sure I could heal Brother Piner without collapsing myself. That gave me the chance to concentrate only on Martin, which was easier. Washing his wound thoroughly, I focused magicka into it, seeing in my mind's eye the way the tissue was supposed to knit together. By the time I'd finished, he was asleep, his skin warm and closer to its natural tone. I dressed him again, wrapping blankets around him, before using the last of my magicka to cast Sinderion's modified Calm spell. It was worth the expense if it could keep him from nightmares while he recovered.

Swaying slightly, I closed my eyes for a moment; and when I opened them again, Guil was standing next to me holding out a couple of potion bottles. Restore Magicka and Restore Stamina... yeah, they both seemed like a good idea. Gulping them down, I nodded thanks, no words possible – or indeed, necessary.

The front door slammed, making me jump, but it was only Jauffre returning from burying Prior Maborel. He appeared pale and drained himself. Even if the burly Chorrol Guards had dug the grave, it must be hard to have to bury someone you've worked with for years and consider a friend. Observing that Martin was sleeping peacefully, I decided to swallow my earlier animosity, and went downstairs to sit with the monk. He glanced up as I sat down beside him.

“What do you want to do next?” I asked. In the flickering candlelight, the stark lines of exhaustion on Jauffre's face reminded me of Emperor Uriel. I could not insult this man now, however much he had annoyed me earlier.

His eyes darted around Weynon House, taking in the Chorrol Guards, Chapel healer, Eronor, and my friend Guil. “The walls still have ears, I think?”

“If _that_ 's a problem...” I cast a modified Illusion spell, one which I'd been working on for a while. It was related to Silence, but instead of creating a soundproof barrier around a single mage to prevent their spell casting, it covered both of us; allowing us to speak freely without sound escaping. Jauffre appeared very impressed.

“ _How_ did you...? I thought you were just a student mage.”

“I'm a _research_ student,” I explained. “We look for new ways to use existing spells, and how to tweak them to make them more useful.”

“Huh. We could do with people like you in the Blades. However you came by it, you react very sensibly in an emergency. I wasn't thinking very clearly earlier. I was so worried about Martin's safety.”

Despite wanting to be respectful, I couldn't let that comment slide. “So worried that you didn't see that he was injured?”

“What?” gasped Jauffre. “Injured? Is he all right?”

“He lost quite a bit of blood, but he should be fine in the morning.” I didn't add “No thanks to you”. That would have been childish.

“I didn't even notice...” The monk was now quite concerned. Unwilling to torment an elderly man, albeit one who irritated me, I changed the subject back to our earlier conversation.

“Where do you think we should go? The Imperial Palace?”

“Gods, no!” Jauffre was shocked. “Not the City! Danger all around!”

“Then where?”

“Nowhere is truly safe against the power arrayed against us. But we must play for time, at least... Cloud Ruler Temple, I think. The hidden fortress of the Blades, in the mountains near Bruma. A few men can hold it against an army.”

“A... _few_ men? Aren't there hundreds of Blades?”

Jauffre said nothing, but his tension was obvious.

“Look,” I said. “You obviously have problems here. I don't pretend to know exactly what's going on, but I couldn't help noticing the lack of armed guards for the Amulet of Kings. You sent me to Kvatch by myself – claiming I could get there more quickly alone, citing safety concerns if any known Blades were seen travelling with Martin. Aren't you supposed to have spies everywhere? And now you expect us to ride to Bruma... by ourselves? Just you and me to protect Martin? I love how I've been roped into this, by the way, but is that really enough?”

Jauffre scratched his head, awkwardly. “I suppose I _can_ trust your discretion... Many of the Blades are trying to locate the Emperor's murderers. If we could find their headquarters, we might be able to strike them before they attack us. Others have not reported back – whether they are dead, or suborned, I cannot tell. Remember the secret passage under the prison should have been known only to the Blades. How did our enemies know of it?”

Ah. If I hadn't been so busy feeling sorry for myself, I should have noticed that the first time Jauffre and I spoke. “Yes, I agree. But... if I understand you correctly, and there really is nothing else left of the Septim bloodline, then Martin _is_ the Emperor, in all but name. He's a surprisingly good fighter and a damned impressive mage, but he has to sleep sometime. And we have no idea what size of force might meet us on the road. If you can't get Blades here in time, then we'll need to find other guards.”

“Like who?”

“Perhaps the Fighters' Guild?”

“Out of the question!” Jauffre was vehement. Although my Silence spell blocked our words from being heard, the fact he'd leapt to his feet was apparent to everyone in the room. I could see the Chorrol City Guards finger their weapons, uncomfortably. “We have no idea who we would even get, what their affiliations are – we could be delivering Martin to his doom!”

“Okay,” I conceded. “Not the Fighters' Guild. How about friends of mine, people I personally know and trust and can vouch for? Like Guil.”

“Your friend Guilbert seems to be effective,” admitted Jauffre. “I was amazed to see a Breton wielding a two-handed warhammer.”

“So, friends, then?” I heaved a big sigh. It was late – if the hourglasses on the wall had been turned that morning as usual, they suggested it was already 10 pm. We were all worn out, and I certainly hadn't eaten anything since the afternoon tea at Weatherleah. I had also been sorely straining my magicka reserves over the past few days, and replacing magicka with potions could only work for so long before your body stopped being able to generate it at all. I'd seen mages return from expeditions with diseases like Astral Vapors, where their bodies were simply unable to regenerate magicka, and there was no way I could risk that. Not when the Emperor of Tamriel (what a thought!) was relying on me to keep him alive. By the Nine!

Not that I could blame the Emperor, considering who he was. Martin seemed even less thrilled with his sudden promotion from simple priest of Akatosh to heir to the Ruby Throne than I was with mine from Journeyman mage to his bodyguard. I could at least do my job to the best of my ability, and stop moaning about it. Presumably, I'd be handing him over to the Blades at Cloud Ruler Temple, then returning to my ordinary life of study and research. Why did I think I might miss him? _Just_ because of my apparent attraction to him? As if someone like me had a chance with a prince! Eh.

Back to the real world. Concentrate on problems you can solve, Alix. I couldn't possibly ride to the Imperial City to gather up enough of my fellow Journeyman mages, and back to Weynon Priory, and then get _back_ on horseback to ride north of Bruma. My thighs and knees hurt too much already. While Restoration magic would help with physical injuries like chafed skin, I knew of no spell or potion that would help _aching_. And poor Prior Maborel, may he rest in peace, had probably never ridden his horse to the extent she had been over the past few days. Even if I left her at the Chestnut Handy Stables outside the Imperial City and picked up a remount... and somehow acquired enough horses for as many mages as I wanted to bring... No. Any bodyguards would have to come from Chorrol.

Well, there were a couple of possibilities. Rallus and Antus Odiil from the Odiil Farm a little farther down the road owed me a favour, after I'd helped them dispatch the goblins that had taken over their property. I wondered if they'd already finished bringing in their harvest. Probably, given that we were a few days past Harvest's End: though I wasn't absolutely certain how closely Cyrodiilic farmers followed the same timetable as those from the more northerly province of High Rock. Knowing how much those boys loved a fight, they'd be a strong possibility; assuming their father could manage without them for a few days. Could I inform them of Martin's true identity? No. Valus Odiil, no problem – loyal to the Empire, he would be delighted to know that his sons were performing a vital service to the new Emperor. The boys themselves? Not mature enough. They might say the wrong thing to the wrong person.

How about Guilbert's brother Reynald? Um... For identical twins, the Jemanes were nowhere near as similar as you might have thought. One was quiet and studious, the other rowdy and boisterous. 10 o'clock on a typical night and Rey would be in the pub, working towards being face down in a mug of ale... Well, we could _try_ asking him. He was a reasonable fighter, when not smashed out of his brain.

My Cone of Silence spell had faded, as my introspection had prevented me from renewing it. Guil tapped me on the shoulder. “I was thinking of going up to Chorrol to get something to eat, and sleep at Rey's house. Will you come with me?”

I looked around the Priory House. Two injured men asleep in bed, a third sleeping in a chair, one elderly monk with an Akaviri katana, a Chapel healer with extremely potent Restoration magic, and four well-built City Guards in full plate armour. I figured it should be safe to leave for a while. “Yes,” I said, “But I'm coming back here to sleep afterwards.”

“As you will,” replied Guil, always polite.

* * *

I returned to Weynon Priory an hour or so later, fortified by some sort of meat stew, mostly-fresh bread, and goat's cheese. I brought several loaves of bread, a leg of cooked ham, and a wheel of cheese with me, figuring that we would all need protein to recover from the battle. Jauffre was sitting downstairs at the table writing out coded orders for various Blades who were yet to report in. I hoped he would be getting some sleep before we set out, knowing it was at least 8 hours of hard riding to Bruma. I left the food with him, and he nodded – pleased with my thoughtfulness, but too busy to chat.

Going upstairs with the bedroll I'd rescued from Kvatch, I checked on Martin. He was asleep, but muttering to himself; either in pain or a nightmare, I didn't know which. Afraid that he might thrash about and tear open his wound, I re-cast both Convalescence and Calm spells; one for healing and the other for dreams. He settled down immediately.

Leaving Jauffre's bed empty, I unrolled my bedding on the floor next to Martin's bed in case he woke up again in the night, and was asleep within seconds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to StellarWind and Tailon for helping me choreograph the fight scene. Without their help, it would have been stale and clichéd.
> 
> Also, it seems that when I wrote this chapter, I was suffering from having eaten a thesaurus. I've taken out as many of the unnecessarily forced synonyms as I could, but some of them may remain - my apologies if they get in the way!


	10. “Do you know who this man is?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alix has a hangover, acquires more guards for Martin, finds out more about Martin's past, and has a peculiar experience with an Ayleid well.

The next morning, I felt fuzzy-headed and dehydrated. I recognised the feeling as a hangover from drinking too many potions in too short a time. I'd been right – I _had_ been expending too much magicka. Everyone else was still asleep.

I staggered outside – where in Oblivion was the privy? Oh, over there by the sheep pens. Ugh. Nauseated, head aching, I did my business and washed my hands as thoroughly as I could; before draining and refilling the trough, and sticking my head right into it. The cold water helped somewhat.

Fresh drinking water. In the well at the front. Food? Oh _gods_ , no. I drew some water and drank about a pint before I felt capable of complete sentences. Even then, the throbbing in my head continued. Neither the Nordic solution of mead nor the Cyrodiilic solution of milk thistle extract seemed like a pleasant plan, although I considered the Argonian idea of throwing myself into a lake before realising that would mean getting back on the horse. Blech.

Exercise and fresh air, perhaps. I could walk. Sort of. It was more like limping because of my aching knees and thighs, but I was moving. And I had errands to run in any case: I needed to find more bodyguards for Martin.

I stumbled down the hill to Odiil Farm first, simply because it seemed like less effort than uphill to Chorrol. As farmers, all three Odiil men were already up and moving, and all looked in better shape than me. Valus Odiil eyed me curiously, with an expression on his face as though I'd grown a second head. I explained the situation carefully, leaving out all mention of Emperors and Blades. But it seemed that Valus had been a neighbour to Weynon Priory for long enough to have some idea what the monks of Talos did other than pray. Apparently they _had_ finished their harvest, and he happily gave permission for his sons to accompany us north for a few days, as long as they came straight back. I arranged to meet them at Weynon Priory in a couple of hours.

We also needed horses, but I wasn't sure what to do about that. There were two other horses in Weynon Priory's stable, as well as the mare I had apparently inherited from the late Prior, and Guilbert's own horse. Four horses between at least six people didn't seem like enough, but I certainly didn't have the cash needed to put down a payment, not even to rent instead of buying. I hoped that Jauffre would be able to deal with that later.

Hobbling in through the gates of Chorrol, I ran into Guilbert on his way back down to the Priory. “Good morning!” he said, utterly loathsome morning person that he is.

“The same to you,” I grumbled. “Did you speak to Reynald about our trip north?”

“I did,” said Guil, “But Rey decided that he wanted no part in a scheme that involved a day of riding. He said that horses bounce about too much and it makes him feel sick.”

“If he wasn't always hung over, it wouldn't be so bad.”

“I agree entirely, but the man is still in recovery from having thought me dead all these years. When we return, I may well drag him to the healers, see if they can do anything about his drinking. I was rather impressed by that Chapel of Stendarr healer who we met last night.”

“Hmm,” I replied, “Do you have everything you need for the journey?”

“I do. I was coming to see whether you needed anything?”

“Food,” I told him. “There really isn't enough in Weynon Priory. Pick up enough for six or seven people, ideally things that can be eaten as they are, or cooked if we have time. Meet me back at the Priory as soon as you can.”

Finally, despite my potion hangover, I needed to make sure we had enough of everything we might need for the trip. High-quality Restore Magicka, Stamina, and Health potions were all essential. If I hadn't been feeling quite so wretchedly awful, I would have returned to Weynon Priory to pick mushrooms and make my own, but I didn't feel capable. Instead, I limped up to the Mages Guild to buy some from Angalmo. Short of money, I used my Guild credit, promising to pay it all back within thirty days.

On the way back out of the Guildhall, I bumped into Teekeeus, and had a sudden flash of inspiration. The Argonian owed me a favour after I'd cleared up a problem involving Earana, an old rival of his who'd been expelled from the Guild. If you're thinking that rather a lot of people owed me favours, you'd be correct – on my trips cross-country, I always seemed to be running into people who needed help. Well, and wasn't this whole situation with the Emperor and his heir not more of the same? How did I get into these scrapes anyway? Oh yes, because Bleeding-Heart Alix was too nice to say no. I should get “Learn to Say No” tattooed on my forehead, backwards so I could read it in a mirror every time I looked at myself.

I outlined our predicament to Teekeeus: simply that we needed to get an important person to Bruma, could be attacked at any time, and weren't sure if we had enough bodyguards. I was particularly keen to stress how we only had two people with magic talents, and one of them was a priest. The Chorrol Guildhall Head's only response was, “You expect me, an Argonian, to go to Bruma? Do you know how cold it is up there?”

“I'm not expecting you, I'm asking you,” I pointed out. “You're one of the best mages I know. Besides, I'm fairly sure there are Argonians even in Skyrim. There must be some way to keep warm. It's only for a couple of days.”

“Hmm.” Teekeeus considered this. “Well, I suppose I will come to Weynon Priory with you and meet this man that you're so desperate to have guarded, and then decide.”

This was a huge decision from the impetuous Guildhall Head, so I had to be happy with it.

Walking back through Chorrol, Teekeeus moaned about the usual subjects: fellow mages, people who did not respect the School of Conjuration, necromancers, people who apparently did not understand the difference between Conjuration and Necromancy, the weather, and how the weather affected his scales. I listened with one ear, nodding at the right moments, while keeping watch for any enemies.

Upon entering Weynon House, I introduced Jauffre and Teekeeus to each other. It turned out that they already had a passing familiarity, as the monks occasionally went up to the Guild to buy stronger potions than they could brew themselves. The two elderly fusspots fell into conversation, and seemed to be getting along quite well; until Martin came downstairs, dressed in an old monk's robe that he'd scavenged from somewhere. Teekeeus stared at the priest, and began to hiss through sharp teeth. Martin, on the other hand, looked absolutely dismayed, even horrified.

“Do you know who this man is?” demanded Teekeeus, whipping his tail around in anger.

“Yes,” I replied, “Among other things, he's a priest of Akatosh. Do _you_ know who he is?” Whatever history the Argonian and the Imperial had with each other, it surely could not include the information that Martin was heir to the throne, as he'd only just found that out himself.

“If you thought Earana was a renegade mage, then this man is ten times worse! At least Earana only broke Guild regulations! She's never killed anybody!”

“You... killed someone?” I asked Martin. A slightly stupid question: I'd _seen_ him kill a couple of people over the past couple of days, but they were bandits, assassins, people wishing to cause us harm. I assumed from Teekeeus's tone of voice that he meant innocent people, friends, perhaps even fellow Guild members.

“Several people,” he whispered. “And not on purpose.” His head was bowed. He seemed utterly despondent.

“We expelled him from the Guild because of what he did! And now you come to me asking for help, no doubt because of something else that he's done. Well, this is unacceptable! You may apologise to me when you return from Bruma. _If_ you return.” He waltzed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Jauffre and the Chorrol City Guards all appeared completely gobsmacked. Martin seemed like he couldn't decide if he was going to throw something or weep.

He chose anger. “So, now you know what sort of man I am. Are you satisfied?” he spat, his harsh tone covering his true emotions.

“Martin, I...” Suddenly several things made sense. Martin's expression of fear upon meeting Jauffre, the strange way he'd asked whether the Emperor knew “all about” him, his odd intonation on the phrase “There is nothing that anyone can do to help _now”_.

“I'm sorry,” I continued. “I'm sure whatever you did, it wasn't your fault.”

“Oh, it was _my fault_ all right. Nobody else could have been as foolish as me. So many lives on my conscience.”

“But you've saved lives as well, since becoming a priest. You must have saved dozens of people at Kvatch.”

“Not enough to atone for my sins,” growled Martin. “It will _never_ be enough.”

He suddenly turned on his heel and fled Weynon House, hiding shame or tears or some other show of emotion. I didn't follow. I figured he needed his privacy.

* * *

In the end, it was mid-afternoon before we left. Getting together supplies took longer than I'd hoped, especially as I insisted that we pack a tent and bedrolls. Jauffre flapped around Weynon House like an overgrown bat, frantically giving more and more orders to poor Brother Piner and Eronor, occasionally sitting down to write yet another coded memo for some member of the Blades, but not hugely helpful in terms of organising our trip north. Martin remained forlorn and brooding, speaking as little as possible as he folded up blankets and sorted potions. The Odiil brothers were too excited about the possibility of fighting to be much good for anything other than stashing away spare weapons in our saddlebags. I relied on Guil, my steady friend and farmer, to get together food and cooking equipment.

We didn't acquire any more horses. It turned out that while Jauffre, Guil, and I were all confident riders, Martin wasn't hugely experienced, and the two Odiil brothers had never been on horseback before. Why was I bringing them again? Oh yes, extra swords. Sorting through the options carefully, I told Rallus Odiil to perch on a blanket behind Guil, and hang onto him for dear life; while putting Antus Odiil, the younger brother, behind me, where I hoped I could rein in his enthusiasm (pun not intended). Guil had his own horse, a black thoroughbred from Cheydinhal; Jauffre's horse was chestnut, and Martin took the third Weynon Priory horse, a sturdy bay. I prayed to whichever of the Nine felt like listening that we would not have any equestrian-related injuries.

Given the distance, and the expected weather conditions as we ventured further north, the only sensible route was to proceed through the Great Forest, then along the Orange Road. Jauffre was unhappy with the idea of simply riding along the main road, but Guil pointed out that an accident in the mountains could be far more hazardous to us than any bandits – or even red-robed assassins – that we might run into.

Guil proved to be right. We were attacked by bandits several times, and were able to outrun them every time. Martin and I were able to deal with the occasional imp that were guarding caves without even dismounting; a flash of fire from me and a bolt of ice from his hands were enough to send them packing. It was only wolves or bears that were a problem, since they could run as fast as our horses and pursue us, while slashing at the poor horse's legs with their claws. We fought several minor battles against animals without injury, the only assault being to my ears when we rode on, as an over-excited Antus told me over and over “Ha ha! We beat them! We slaughtered them all! Did you see? Did you see how well I fought?”

We rode for about three hours before calling a halt by a lush patch of grass. The horses were starting to tire, and my arse was hurting. I was fairly sure I couldn't be the only person with chapped skin in uncomfortable places. We tied the horses to a tree, to prevent them wandering too far and possibly falling off the steep cliff, and let them graze for a while. We spread blankets out on the ground, threw ourselves down, and nibbled on the food we'd brought with us – bread, cooked meat, and fruit – while chatting aimlessly about nothing of any importance. Rallus lay with his head in Guil's lap; I kept being hugged by the overenthusiastic Antus. Jauffre watched over us all benevolently.

I was worried about Martin. Although he had coped perfectly well with the ride, he was sullen – sitting physically apart from the rest of us, and speaking no more than one or two words at a time. In fact, most of the time he was ignoring our conversation altogether, only answering if directly spoken to. He didn't really seem to be eating very much either, just picking at some bread and an apple. I knew he was still thinking about what Teekeeus had said that morning, and the battle the night before, and... everything that had happened over the past few days. Quite a lot to process.

There was one question I could ask. “Martin, are you all right? Is your back hurting?”

“I'm fine,” he muttered, without making eye contact. Damn. If I'd known him better, I'd have been able to tell if that meant that he really was okay, or if he was in physical pain or emotional distress, but didn't want to talk about it. As it was, I couldn't tell.

Before getting back on the horses, I cast Convalescence on everyone, in the hope of avoiding saddle sores. We continued riding for a couple more hours, into the dark, until I saw an Ayleid well by the side of the road. An ancient device built out of once-white limestone, resembling a fountain, with glowing green light flowing from the centre instead of water. Able to restore and fortify magicka naturally, this was ideal for any mage suffering from magicka fatigue.

I dismounted from my horse and walked over to it, feeling the magicka calling to me. Martin did the same, obviously not as distracted as I'd feared. The non-mages watched us curiously as we walked to the well and plunged our hands in. The green light rose up our arms, and power surged through our bodies. I felt my hair stand on end, skin tingling like an electric shock, before the rush of magic brought me to a very sharp hyperfocus. I was oddly aware of every part of my body at once: my heart beating with its characteristic double-thump, blood pulsing through my arteries and flowing back through my veins, nervous impulses racing to and from my spinal cord. I looked at my own hand and thought I saw the secrets of the universe written in the pattern of the lines and folds of my skin. Time itself seemed to slow down.

“Alix!” screamed Rallus. I blinked. Apparently I had, entirely involuntarily, cast a Fireball in the direction of the horses: who were now bolting in panic, complete with their riders. Or at least, some of their riders. Rallus had slid backwards off his horse, and was now lying awkwardly on the grass. I hoped the vague singed smell in my nostrils wasn't actually his hair on fire. Guil was attempting to dismount, one foot in the stirrup and clinging desperately onto his horse's neck as it stampeded. I couldn't even _see_ Antus through the commotion. Jauffre alone was standing calmly – presumably using some sort of special monk tranquility – and trying to gather the poor creatures back together. Idly, without any conscious thought, I cast Calm with a huge area of effect, hitting all of the horses easily, despite the fact they were running away from me fast. What was going on? I'd used Ayleid wells before, but never had this kind of magical overdose.

I glanced over at Martin. His blue eyes were insanely wide, and like I'd done a few... seconds? minutes? previously, he was staring at his own hands. Except that whereas I had unintentionally sparked flames, he was generating icicles, which were growing off his arms and fingers like stalactites. He was examining the fractal patterns in the frozen water, perhaps even able to perceive individual molecules. The sound of shouting and the hoof beats against the ground distracted him from his study, and he looked around, meeting my gaze. “By Akatosh, this feels amazing!” he cried out, a dazzling smile lighting up his face for the first time since I'd met him. I answered him with a massive grin of my own – too intoxicated to be able to form words.

Then the power died, and we fell to the ground. Jauffre dashed over, asking Martin if he was okay. Martin's reply sounded dizzy, uncertain. Green sparks flashed at the edges of my vision as I sat up. By the Nine, what a rush! No wonder; we had totally drained the well. I wasn't sure what that meant. _Only_ that we had both been pushing ourselves past our limits for too long? Had some sort of magical synergy or feedback loop happened because two mages used the well at once? Was this something I should report when I got back to University?

I tried to stand up on shaky legs and had to lean forward and grab the wall as the world tipped sideways. I felt as though I might faint, despite being full of energy. I felt _too_ full, brain fizzing and sparking, as if magicka was going to start spilling out of the top of my head. Guilbert and Rallus – who it seemed was mostly unhurt – grabbed me and forced me to sit down again, until the dizziness passed. I hoped Jauffre was doing the same for Martin. I hoped _someone_ was looking after him, because I... just... couldn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Ayleid well scene was lovingly beta'ed by StellarWind.
> 
> This is the chapter in which Alix is most like me. "Utterly loathsome morning person" and "Learn to say no!" are both very much phrases of mine; and Alix's tendency to want to help people by volunteering for things is something I suffer from terribly.
> 
> I've mentioned this on previous works: my approach to magic in the Elder Scrolls universe is much more scientific than the "wave hands and it happens" in the game. This means that I sometimes use words which people in Tamriel would not be familiar with. As Alix's manuscript is being translated from his native language of Cyrodiilic into modern English, I've assumed that his words are also being translated to the most appropriate modern term. Apologies if this is jarring.


	11. The Wayshrine of Akatosh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Martin has a profound religious experience and terrifies his companions; and Alix and Martin figure out some of the Emperors' magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Very upset Martin. Rather disturbing nightmare and aftermath.

Ten minutes later, I felt like a human being again – or at least, capable of getting back in the saddle without falling off the horse. The poor recently-frightened horse, who was almost certainly now terrified of me. Realising how frosty it was in the air, I suggested, “We should probably stop for the night soon. It's getting rather late.”

“I'm not comfortable with stopping,” said Jauffre. “What if Martin is attacked? I'd be much happier with riding through the night.”

This set off a chorus of complaints, such as “I don't know about you, old man, but _my_ backside hurts” and “Jauffre, be reasonable – the horses can't keep going all night, they need rest as much as we do.” Everyone was talking at once until one voice rang out, making us all stop and listen. Martin's.

“I believe there's a Wayshrine of Akatosh near here,” he said. “That would seem like an appropriate place to spend the night.”

Jauffre started to object, but we all stared at him. Martin gave him a _look_ which I couldn't identify: some almost telepathic communication passed between them, and Jauffre acquiesced.

The Wayshrine of Akatosh wasn't far – we could have walked there in half an hour, were it not uphill. We were grateful for our sure-footed horses in the dark. Guil and Jauffre were carrying lighted torches, and I had cast Candlelight on myself. Martin rode between us, the darkness providing some degree of camouflage. I wasn't sure how exactly a possible assassin would recognise him, and thought that any advantage of surprise should be on our side.

When we arrived and started to unpack, I ended up so impressed by Guil's forethought that I hugged him tight. He had persuaded the Odiil brothers to gather up as much firewood from Weynon Priory as we could take without depriving Brother Piner and Eronor, who were waiting behind in case any Blades came to report in to Jauffre. This insightful idea meant that we didn't need to waste any time scrabbling around in the dark trying to find dry wood with which to make a campfire.

I'm told that cooking over a campfire without magic is a difficult task, and certainly not something you'd try at a temporary stop. Fortunately, that's not something I've ever had to deal with. It was easy enough for me to build a fire with the wood we'd packed, light it with a Fireball, and keep the wood burning steadily at the right temperature. Meanwhile, Guil chopped vegetables into a pot to make soup so we could eat something hot before going to bed. Rallus and Antus set up the tent, noisily, with several arguments. Jauffre eventually helped them out before they came to blows, then arranged bedrolls for all of us. Martin did anything that he could do without having to speak to anyone; mostly fetching and carrying.

* * *

After dinner, while the others lazed around, Jauffre escorted Martin to the shrine to pray. He behaved in much the same way as he had in Skingrad, abasing himself before the altar, eyes closed, anguish dreadfully apparent. Jauffre regarded him with some concern.

“I hadn't realised that Martin was _this_ religious,” he murmured, as I approached.

“I believe he's suffering from an extreme case of guilt,” I explained. “I should never have told him that the daedra attacked Kvatch in an attempt to murder him personally, but otherwise I feared he would never leave. His sense of duty made him circle the survivors endlessly, attempting to provide healing or comfort. I thought he might drop dead from exhaustion.”

“Ah,” muttered Jauffre. “Guilt. I see.”

Should I ask him? It was now or never. “Jauffre? Do you know how Martin managed to kill people and get expelled from the Mages Guild?”

The elderly monk looked awkward. “Ah... I wish that you had never heard that. Yes, I do know. But I cannot tell you. The Blades are sworn to the service of the Emperor, as the mortal representative of the Dragon Blood of the divine Talos. I cannot go against the wishes of my Emperor and reveal his secrets.”

Oh. “I understand,” I replied. “But I think it's important. Martin's feeling guilty about everyone who died at Kvatch, on top of the guilt he already feels for... whatever happened in his past. And then there's all this pressure being thrown at him – finding out he's the Emperor's son, and that he's now the heir to the throne. I'm worried about him.”

“Do you fear for his sanity?” asked Jauffre, very seriously.

“Not his _sanity_ , as such – he seems level-headed enough. I don't think he's going to become the next Mad Emperor Pelagius. More, his _happiness_. He must have had hopes and dreams for his life in Kvatch, and now they've all been shattered.”

“I don't think that Martin will open up to me,” said the monk, sadly. “I believe he is feeling resentful towards me for all the times I visited him without telling him who he really was.”

Okay. So Jauffre wasn't willing to answer one of the questions I had, but was freely offering information about the other. “Have you known him long?” I asked.

“All his life. His mother married one of the Blades, and they lived in a small village near Bruma called Applewatch. It enabled me to receive regular updates on his progress, which I passed on to the Emperor.”

“Did his _father_ know he wasn't really his father?” What a clumsy way to phrase it.

Jauffre apparently understood though, since he answered, “Of course. His parents were the only people apart from myself and the Emperor who knew Martin's real identity.”

“Huh,” I commented, articulately – before thinking of another question. “Jauffre? What's Martin's surname? I only know him as 'Brother Martin'.”

“Well, obviously, it _will_ be Septim, when he is presented as a candidate for the Ruby Throne. But right now, it is Draconis.”

“Draconis,” I breathed. “For the dragon... That's oddly appropriate, considering his affinity with Akatosh, and the Dragon Blood of the Septims. Huh.”

The monk chuckled. We continued to watch Martin pray for a few more minutes, until he abruptly cried out and rocked back onto his knees in frustration. His hands clenched into fists, and he thumped the altar once, before dropping his head and howling. Jauffre and I were at his side immediately.

“Martin?” I asked, greatly alarmed. “What in Oblivion is wrong?”

“The gods aren't speaking to me any more. I keep begging them to tell me whether this is all part of their plan, and they're not listening!” His voice was utterly distraught.

I touched his shoulder. He felt chilled all the way through. “Martin, you're freezing. You need to get to bed now before you become ill from being out here in the cold. Come on. You can try speaking to the Nine again in the morning.”

He allowed me to lead him back to the tent only because he was too unhappy to argue. I helped him to unlace his boots and get into the bedroll as if he was a young child, wrapping the blankets and furs around him as if he was incapable of doing it for himself. To be honest, I wasn't actually sure if he _was_ capable of looking after himself at that point. I snuggled into my own bedroll before leaning over to cast the Calm spell, proof against bad dreams. Martin's eyes closed – not least of all because it had been another long, difficult day, and he desperately needed sleep.

“Now go to sleep,” I whispered, and he did.

* * *

I woke up sometime in the middle of the night with someone screaming right into my ear, and other people shouting. Antus Odiil was outside, keeping watch by the campfire; which left five people in the tent, three of whom were now yelling. I cast Candlelight to see what was going on. Martin had woken up screaming, and was now sitting bolt upright, staring into space, and hyperventilating, with an extremely dazed expression on his face. He looked for all the world like he'd just choked down three bottles of skooma in a row; paler than it should have been possible for someone of his natural colouring to be, _and_ decidedly green around the gills. Jauffre, Guil, and Rallus were all trying to talk to him and get his attention, then panicking when he didn't reply.

Without warning, Martin threw off his bedding, pushed himself to his feet, and staggered out of the tent – causing young Antus, who was already alarmed by the commotion, to become even more frightened. I grabbed my cloak and boots, and dashed outside to find out what was going on. Martin was on his hands and knees, vomiting into the snow. Then he collapsed in a heap.

I was at his side within seconds, touching his shoulder gently, calling his name; and then shaking him more vigorously when he didn't respond. His eyes were glazed over and he was trembling violently, although some of that could be the cold. I put my hand on his forehead and found it drenched in sweat, though he didn't seem abnormally warm. Dragging him as close to the campfire as I could, I gathered him into my arms, wrapping my cloak around both of us; and held him tightly, wanting to preserve his body heat.

Jauffre and Antus hurried over. “Martin? My lord?” asked Jauffre, agitatedly, reaching over to touch Martin's head as well. Receiving no response, he asked me, “Is he sick? Could he have been poisoned?”

“He's eaten nothing that the rest of us haven't,” I replied. “Besides, I know all of these people. It couldn't possibly be poison.” I had more important concerns. “Jauffre, please, go and fetch his cloak and blankets. He's absolutely soaked with sweat.”

Antus was hopping from foot to foot, very scared, with no idea what to do. I had to give him a job as well. “Antus, please go and fill the kettle with fresh snow, and heat it on the campfire. I need a mug of strong tea with as much honey as you can dissolve into it.”

Guil and Rallus emerged from the tent, not used to emergencies, so having taken a bit longer to find their boots. They seemed bewildered, clinging to each other in confusion. Having dealt with everything from night terrors to alcohol poisoning in fellow mages at the Arcane University (see previous comments about my “bleeding heart”), the last thing I thought useful was an excess of gawkers. “Guys?” I called out, rubbing Martin's back to keep him warm. “The situation's under control. Go back to sleep. You'll be needed for the watch later.”

Rallus turned round and padded back into the tent. Guil, aware of the priest's true identity, was more concerned. “Alix? Are you sure? Is Martin all right?”

“He isn't right now,” I answered, honestly, “but he will be. Don't worry. I know what I'm doing.”

Guil nodded, and opened the tent flap to assist Jauffre, struggling under the bulk of hastily-folded blankets. As Guil ducked back inside the tent, the monk came over. “Please will you wrap him up?” I requested. “I don't want to let go of him for an instant. Oh – and you'd better put a blanket around your own shoulders if you're going to stay out here.”

Jauffre nodded, oddly content to take instructions from me. Wasn't he Grandmaster of the Blades? I would have to question that later. After we'd dried as much of Martin's sweat as we could and bundled him up in bedding, he seemed to be shivering less, though he was still staring blankly. His breath came in gasps. I cast Frost Shield to stop him losing any more heat.

“What do you think's wrong with him?” asked Jauffre, sitting down on a nearby tree stump.

“One of two things. Either he's ill, or suffering from severe psychological shock. Having seen him almost this bad the other night, my money's on the shock: but it doesn't really matter. The treatment's the same in both cases.”

“What's that?”

“This.” I didn't want to waste any more time talking instead of spell casting. With both hands directly on Martin's skin, I gathered magicka to weave Sinderion's complex Calm spell. The more I cast it, the easier it seemed; but I still needed my full concentration. As the green light flowed from my hands, it encircled the heir's body. Gradually his breathing slowed, to a more manageable rate, and his eyes closed.

Jauffre's mouth gaped open. “What was _that_?”

“A modified Calm spell. Normally we use Calm to persuade someone who wants to attack us that we're friends. This version is for people who are friends to start with. I've cast an illusion on his mind that everything is okay, so that he can recover from the shock and tell us what upset him.”

“We really do need to get someone like you in the Blades,” stated the Grandmaster. “I've never seen anything like that.”

“I didn't invent that spell,” I admitted. “A friend taught it to me.”

“But you could cast it.”

“Yes.” We looked at each other, in a moment of mutual understanding. It was true – the old man was definitely not irritating me as much. Maybe he was finally realising that I was more than just a daft, young kid who didn't know anything about Tamrielic history?

Antus stumbled over with the mug of tea I'd requested. “Um, Alix? I did what you said. Put as much honey as I could into it? Is that all right?”

“Sure,” I said, “Thank you. Why don't you make a couple more mugs for Jauffre and me, and then go and get some sleep? I think we'll be awake for a while.”

“Okay!” The boy lumbered off, returning rapidly with some more tea. We nodded thanks at him, and he disappeared back into the tent.

I shifted Martin in my arms, shaking him gently and calling his name. He moaned softly – hearteningly, more of a response than we'd got out of him since he'd woken us all up. His eyes flickered open. “Akatosh,” he said, in a strange tone of voice; neither a prayer nor a curse. Jauffre and I glanced at each other, but he said nothing more.

“Martin,” I said, wanting to use his name as much as possible in case he was still dissociating, “You're in shock. I need you to drink this tea. Do you think you can do that for me?”

Martin blinked, and his eyes focused to some extent. Even if he wasn't completely back in the real world, he did at least appear to be aware of our existence. Still unable to speak, he nodded. Looping my arms around the priest's chest, I helped him sit upright, and brought the mug of sweetened tea to his mouth. He took a sip, obediently, seeming unconcerned by the taste. I hugged him against my body, cajoling him to drink more of the tea, until he pushed it away half-finished. He licked his lips.

“Are you able to tell us what happened?” I asked, quietly.

“Akatosh!” Martin said, again. Pupils dilated in the moonlight, his eyes glittered as if feverish. Jauffre and I shared a brief glance of terror, before Martin sighed and continued speaking. “I dreamt... He was here.”

“You dreamed about Akatosh?” prompted Jauffre.

“I... _Yes_.” Martin's beatific smile was actually rather frightening. His incoherency persuaded me that he was still in shock.

“Drink some more tea,” I told him, holding the mug up to his lips again. I figured we'd know he was somewhere near normal about the time he started complaining about the amount of sugar in it.

“I saw the Dragon,” Martin mumbled. “And then... I _was_ the Dragon.” Definitely a capital D. The religious fervour in his expression told me that.

Jauffre, in his guise as a monk of Talos, was rather less alarmed than I. “Were you not distressed only last night because you thought that the gods had stopped speaking to you? What better answer could you get than a dream straight from Akatosh himself?”

“I know.” Martin's eyes closed, that same blissful expression still on his face. Lying on my lap as he was, in the flickering of the firelight, he suddenly resembled his father – _after_ he'd been assassinated.

The sudden jolt of fear made me remember. “The Emperor mentioned Akatosh! He said 'The dawn of Akatosh's bright glory may banish the coming darkness.' What does that mean?”

Jauffre was silent for some time, thinking. “He must have been referring to the Dragonfires of Akatosh, in the Temple of the One. Remember, I told you how the coronation of each new Emperor is sealed when he uses the Amulet of Kings to light the Dragonfires? They remain lit until the death of the Emperor, and his successor then lights them anew upon ascending to the throne. There must be... some connection between the Dragonfires and the magical barriers that protect the mortal world from the daedra of Oblivion.”

Martin's eyes snapped open, much more focused than before, and afraid. Could that Calm spell be wearing off _already_? His muscles started to tense as he breathed faster again, and I stroked his arms to try to get him to relax. “Jauffre? In my dream... Mehrunes Dagon was _here_ , in Nirn. Could that be real?”

Jauffre stared into the campfire for a moment, preoccupied. I took the opportunity to force some more honeyed tea into Martin's mouth; finally seeing his nose wrinkle in displeasure. He batted the mug away.

“I don't see how that could be real, Martin,” said Jauffre, finally. “The barriers between Oblivion and our world have been weakened, but they cannot yet have broken completely. We would certainly know if they had!”

“But it was so realistic...”

“The men of the Septim line see further than others do,” Jauffre suggested. “I am not in the least bit surprised that you dreamt of the Dragon after learning that you are of the Dragon Blood, and especially here at the Shrine of Akatosh.”

Martin shivered. I handed him what was left of my cup of tea, which he accepted with a smile. I noticed that he was still cuddled up against me. Maybe it was to conserve warmth. Maybe it was because he'd seen me with my friends, how freely we exchanged touch? I didn't know. I just felt his sadness and worry, and wanted to do anything I could to alleviate it.

“I'm confused though,” I said. “This can't be the first time that the heir to the throne was not in the Imperial City at the time his father died. But didn't you tell me that this is the first time in centuries that the Dragonfires in the Temple have stayed dark?”

Martin shifted around, unsettled. Very slowly, he said, “Jauffre? Is there anything else you should have told me when I was younger, and didn't?”

The Blade Grandmaster looked exceedingly uncomfortable. Given the nature of his oath, I imagined he was unable to avoid a direct order from his Emperor. I wondered if he had noticed that Martin had, very carefully, _not_ given a direct order? I actually felt sorry for him. And then I thought of something else.

“Martin?” I asked. “How long have you been having bad dreams? I mean, has it just been since the fall of Kvatch, or is it something that happens regularly?”

“Hmm?” Martin turned to look at me. “You know that I haven't had a good night's sleep since Kvatch was attacked. But... Why do you want to know?”

“The Emperor kept talking about his dreams. He said that he'd dreamt of me, that he was 'blessed to see the hour of his death', he knew by seeing me that it was the day he'd die...” I trailed off, realising that the heir had reached the same conclusion.

“Jauffre.” Martin faced him, somehow the Emperor of Tamriel despite being dressed in a borrowed robe and bundled up in blankets. He hadn't been brought up a prince. Could a regal bearing be inherited? “Tell me what I need to know.”

Jauffre swallowed, nervously. “It is said that the Septim Emperors have the gift of prophecy, my lord.”

“Prophecy?” Martin toyed with his empty mug.

I was starting to piece things together. “So... normally an Emperor would know that he was about to die, and send for his son? And the coronation ceremony would take place immediately, keeping the Dragonfires lit?”

Jauffre nodded. “That is what I understand, Alix. Though only the Emperors truly understand the meaning behind the rituals of coronation.”

“So... why didn't the Emperor do that this time? Because of the assassins? To save Martin's life?”

“I can only assume so, my child.” The elderly monk seemed bowed under the weight of these revelations.

Martin huddled deeper into his blankets, shivering again. Was he cold, or anxious? I wished we had more tea. “Was my dream a prophecy, then? Not something that is happening now, but something that _will_ happen?”

“Perhaps, my lord.” How non-committal. “Though what I would suggest is that, from what you've said, Akatosh is with you, and you are his servant. Our paths will become clearer with time. For now, we must get you to safety at Cloud Ruler Temple, and then try to recover the Amulet of Kings.”

Martin nodded. “We should try to get some more sleep, then. Tomorrow will be another long day.”

We returned to the tent. I woke Guil for the watch, curled up in my bedroll, and was asleep within minutes.


	12. An Odd Premonition of Danger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Martin and his bodyguards are attacked by the Mythic Dawn, injuries occur, and Martin humbly heals them.

The next day started far too early. Jauffre was anxious to get Martin to safety at Cloud Ruler Temple as soon as possible, and we still had several hours of travel. I felt tired and disoriented from lack of sleep the night before, as well as concerned about Martin: who was even more quiet and withdrawn obsessing over his strange dream than he had been from guilt. I was extremely grateful to Guilbert and the Odiil brothers for carrying on as usual, sorting out hot tea and breakfast, and packing up our camping equipment while Jauffre checked over weapons, and Martin and I mostly blinked in dazed confusion.

We had an argument about the journey before we'd even set off. I had assumed that we would continue east along the Orange Road until it met the Silver Road, ride north to Bruma, then around the city and northwest to Cloud Ruler Temple; thus involving only the safer main roads. Jauffre pointed out that as the Temple was almost due north of the Wayshrine of Akatosh and the main road went significantly out of our way, it would be more sensible to ride back to the Ayleid well, then north and east along an unnamed mountain path, until we met the Silver Road north of Bruma. He thought that should cut at least an hour off our riding time. I told him that I thought the main road would be safer – more Imperial Legion riders, so harder to set up an ambush. He mentioned the Silver Road's steep sides, and the probability of ambush just from ordinary bandits dropping down on us.

In the end, we both deferred to Martin, who said, “The sooner we reach Cloud Ruler Temple the better.” He smiled benignly and told us that he was familiar with the mountain path north from the Ayleid well, since it branched west to go to Applewatch, the village where he'd lived as a boy. We took that as a recommendation, and set off. Once we got back to the turnoff, we arranged on the horses in single file – Jauffre ahead, then Antus and me, then Martin, finally Guil and Rallus – since the mountain trail was very narrow.

I felt uncomfortable. The slopes either side of the narrow track were in fact marginally less steep than those on the main Silver Road, meaning it would be perfectly safe for anyone well-trained in acrobatics to jump down. There were also lots of big rocks to provide cover for waiting attackers. I kept thinking I saw flashes of red cloaks, an odd premonition of danger. Was I anxious because we hadn't taken the route that I wanted to take? Was I simply being paranoid? I couldn't help but look around, to the point where I was making Antus edgy as well.

We rode for about half an hour. I thought we were somewhere near the Bruma Caverns, further up the hill to the east. I'd started to relax. Suddenly, four people in red cloaks dropped down in front of Jauffre's horse, screaming “For Lord Dagon!” as they summoned their Bound Armour. Jauffre stopped so abruptly that I would have crashed my horse into his, were horses not intelligent creatures. I whirled round in the saddle – Martin and Guil, with more warning, had managed to turn their horses around, but to no avail. A further four red-robed attackers had dropped down behind us, so we were perfectly trapped between the two groups of enemies. Damn.

Antus jumped off the horse, drawing his sword as he did so, before charging the group of enemies in front of us. Jauffre dismounted more sedately, then drew his two-handed Akaviri katana and did the same. Rallus and Guil threw themselves off their horse, charging the attackers behind us. Martin cast Shock Shield before dashing into the fray, shards of ice flying out of his hands. The Emperor's assassins were using Bound Maces, and various Destruction spells blasted through the air over my head.

I was paralysed, uncertain which group of Dagon cultists to attack. The ones in front, or the ones behind? Should I help Antus and Jauffre, or rush to protect Martin? I knew him to be a fairly competent fighter, but the assassins were after _him_ specifically. Did they even know which of us was the heir?

Obviously they did. As I stood there in panic, red-robed followers from both groups came rushing towards Martin, surrounding him. Seeing him in danger broke my paralysis, and I leapt towards them screaming, casting a powerful ranged Disintegrate Armour spell. I knew it would bounce harmlessly off the priest, stuck in the middle, since he was using a Shield spell rather than Bound Armour. I pooled magicka in my hands, wondering what to do. Fire was always my element of choice, but any ranged attacks would surely hurt Martin. He was casting Frost Bolts with his left hand while desperately fending off attacks with his dagger of Sparks, but there was only one of him and four attackers. I could see from blood on his robe that he'd already taken several hits.

Everyone else was busy fighting; one enemy each. Very afraid, I cast Chameleon, before slapping the backside of my horse. As I'd hoped, she ran forwards, knocking into Jauffre's horse and making it run too. The two of them stampeded into the enemies at the front. Jauffre jumped out of the way, very nimbly for such an old man. Antus was knocked sideways but landed on top of his opponent, giving him an opportunity to strike at close range. I ran towards Martin, drawing my own sword while gathering magicka in my left hand. I cast Scorching Blow on the would-be assassin immediately in front of me, stabbing her through with my sword before she could recast her Bound Armour. Then there were three.

Martin was doing his best, but he couldn't cover all three of his attackers, and I could see he was tiring fast. I chanted Fortify Magicka on myself as I struck the enemy on my right; knowing I needed to keep moving, or I would lose the benefit of my Chameleon spell. Having dispensed with one of the Dagon followers behind us, Rallus Odiil came running up to tackle one of Martin's other attackers; leaving Guil and his warhammer fighting the last agent at the back. I dodged and weaved as my magicka restored itself, before casting Disintegrate Armour and Scorching Blow together into the enemy immediately in front of me. He fell to the ground, swearing, and I finished him off with my sword. That left two.

Rallus was not an expert swordfighter, but he was young, energetic, and clever: aiming his blade deliberately for the parts of the enemy that were covered only by red robes. Martin had fallen to his knees – gods' blood, _no_! I saw blue light swirl round him as he switched to defensive magic; clearly hurt enough to need healing. I lashed out with my sword, doing no damage at all since the cultist's Bound Armour had regenerated. _Damn it_. I was running out of magicka again since I'd been casting my strongest spells, not used to having to conserve it. No time to run after the horses to find my Restore Magicka potions. I vowed that from now onwards, I'd keep one looped to my belt at all times.

The potential assassin in front of Martin hadn't noticed me, still perfectly camouflaged against the background. Martin was still on his knees, clutching his dagger in his trembling right hand, blue eyes raised to the sky in terror. He seemed to be praying – I recognised the word “Akatosh” on his lips. His attacker laughed in victory, lashing out at him with a high-powered Shocking Burst spell. The electric charge connected with Martin's body, sending him flying. He convulsed on the ground once, twice; before ceasing to move, eyes open and unblinking. Horrified, I yelled my head off and poured everything I had into another Disintegrate Armour spell, as the follower of Dagon bent down to find out whether the heir had really been killed. Martin's hands grabbed the would-be assassin, and ice flooded out of them – until it was _his enemy_ who fell down dead.

I let my Chameleon spell drop, throwing myself down next to Martin. “Are you all right?” I gasped, at about the same time as he seized my hand and said “I'm fine.” He smiled. We stared at each other for a couple of heartbeats before remembering there were other people fighting, other enemy agents to worry about. I heard one more clash of steel on steel, and a deep, agonised groan; before Rallus and Guil rushed over to check on us. Neither of them seemed badly injured, thank the Nine, though we all had ripped and torn clothing. There were red-robed bodies _everywhere_.

Martin accepted Guil's offer of a hand up, then stood brushing dirt out of his hair. Seeing that I was okay, Rallus ran towards Jauffre and Antus, who were both lying on the floor. I followed, slightly more slowly. Fortunately Jauffre was only winded, needing a few moments rest before he could stand. Antus however was clutching his right arm, which seemed a peculiar shape. I glanced round – Guil and Martin were following. Noticing that Antus was hurt, Martin went straight into priest mode, crouching next to him to examine the injury. I was still freaked out from Martin pretending to be dead.

“Search the corpses,” said Jauffre, and I hastened to do that – but found nothing more exciting than some food I didn't want because it had been in a would-be assassin's pocket. No messages, secret orders, or information of any kind. _That_ was a pity.

Guil had collected the other two horses, and was now giving Martin a Restore Magicka potion. Rallus was holding his brother who was grey-faced and wincing in pain. A steady stream of Restoration magic swirled around Antus; and both brothers stared wide-eyed at Martin, more than a little charmed by his concern. Jauffre staggered to his feet and took the reins of the first two horses from Guil, while he went to fetch the others.

Martin's hands fell to his sides. “That's as much as I can do for you for now, Antus. I expect all of us have some injuries, even if they're only cuts and bruises. I think the best thing to do would be to stop in Bruma and visit the Chapel of Talos. We're fairly close to the North gate now.”

I glanced at the others. I remembered that Jauffre had wanted to avoid the city, but we should be safe enough within its walls. If anyone tried to attack Martin, there would be townspeople and City Guards to help. It was now obvious that Dagon's cultists somehow knew that he was heading for Cloud Ruler Temple, so we would need to be as healthy as possible before setting out again in case of – gods forbid – a second ambush. I could tell from everyone's faces that we were all having similar thoughts; no one was likely to gainsay the heir.

Martin indicated his own horse. Rallus climbed onto the back, before Martin and Guil carefully lifted Antus into the saddle. Rallus held his brother securely, as the Emperor took the reins, and started to walk the horse towards Bruma. The rest of us mounted, and rode slowly behind them.

* * *

In the Great Chapel of Talos, we washed our wounds before presenting them to the chapel healer, Cirroc. Jauffre alone was entirely unhurt, leaving us behind while he spoke to the Captain of the Bruma City Guards about the presence of the Emperor's assassins. I had only a few minor bruises since I'd spent most of the fight invisible. I realised I would need to do something about my fighting skills, and fast. Destruction magic was useful when it was you against a swarm of monsters. It wasn't so useful when you had friends or allies between you and the people you needed to hit.

Rallus, Guil, and Antus were all seriously bruised, with a number of lacerations where the points of a mace had poked through their skin. Antus also had a badly-broken right arm, which Martin had started to mend before running out of magicka. Martin himself was covered in darkening bruises all over his torso, with a number of shock burns visible on his skin. The deep slash on his back, which had been almost healed the previous night, was open and bleeding again.

I gaped at him, opening and closing my mouth like a fish because I had no idea what to say. He smiled, faintly. “No need for alarm, Alix. I'm still alive.”

“I... I'd thought for a while there that you weren't.” I shivered, entirely involuntarily.

Martin grimaced. “Yes, I'm sorry you had to... see my ruse. It was the only thing I could think of.” He dropped his head, letting his hair fall over his face. I wasn't sure whether to read his gesture as exhaustion, or shame.

Instead, I focused on the positives. “You look terrible. I don't understand how you survived.”

He looked up, raising his eyebrows. “I'd cast Shock Shield, remember?”

“Oh.” I felt like an idiot. _Obviously_ Shock Shield would protect him against lightning attacks.

Martin reached out and touched my arm lightly. “Don't be upset. I'm fine.” He paused, before saying, shyly, “If you want, you could help me heal some of this?”

“Yes. Of course,” I replied, placing my hands on his skin gently. Casting Convalescence, I pictured his skin undamaged, and directed magicka to rebuild the tissue. I healed him slowly, allowing my magicka to regenerate rather than burning through it as I had during the battle. I wanted to learn how deep my reserves really were, and how rapidly my magic would return after I used it. My eyes were closed for better concentration, but I could see the steady stream of bright light through my eyelids.

After ten minutes or so, Martin stopped me by squeezing my hand. My eyes shot open in surprise. “You should probably stop before you exhaust yourself. My magicka's restored now. I can carry on from here.”

“Martin?” I asked. “If you were so badly beaten, why didn't you heal yourself earlier, instead of helping Antus?”

He looked surprised. “Antus was injured in my defence. I owed him a debt of honour. I... I swore, after Kvatch, that no one else was going to get hurt because of me. Besides, he was in serious pain.”

I nodded. His answer made sense – and gave me a bit more insight into his character. Whatever had happened when he was younger, he was now a man of strength and integrity. I prayed that would be enough to keep him going through the difficult trials ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually the chapter I am least happy with in the entire novel, but I've rewritten and edited and poked at it several times, and it doesn't seem to be getting any better. I'm hoping it is more impressive for people who aren't me.
> 
> Thanks again to Stellarwind and Tailon for help with the battle scene.


	13. “Welcome to Cloud Ruler Temple!”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Martin arrives at Cloud Ruler Temple, is hailed as the new Emperor, and handed over to the custody of the Blades.

Fortunately, the ride from Bruma up to Cloud Ruler Temple was entirely uneventful. Although the air felt colder as we ascended the mountain, it was nearly noon and the sun was shining brightly overhead. We had a truly impressive view over Cyrodiil – all the way down the mountains, past Bruma and several smaller towns, to the White-Gold Tower, standing in the middle of the Imperial City. I wondered what Martin was thinking, knowing that his true destination was the Imperial Palace at the base of that Tower.

Cloud Ruler Temple itself was an imposing building, made of large stone bricks. I didn't recognise the style it was built in, and assumed it must be Akaviri architecture. There was a pair of high metal gates set into a gatehouse at the front of the building, with not a single window in the wall. The tiled roofs above each of the two turrets were pitched and strangely curved; the four corners raised to the sky as if in deference to the gods. As we approached, five of us goggling at the bizarre fortress, the gate was flung open and a Redguard man wearing what I recognised as the uniform of the Blades came out to greet us.

He rushed over to Jauffre, saying only, “Grandmaster, is this... ?”

Jauffre smiled and responded, “Yes, Cyrus. This is the Emperor's son, Martin Septim.”

I heard Antus gasp “The _Emperor_ 's son?” to Rallus; both brothers staring at each other as they suddenly realised who they'd been accompanying. I saw Martin swallow hard, bracing himself for what was to come next.

The Blade, apparently Cyrus, beamed and bowed low to Martin. “My lord! Welcome to Cloud Ruler Temple! We have not had the honour of an Emperor's visit in many years!”

Martin did his best, replying politely, “Ah, well, thank _you_! The honour is mine.”

Jauffre said, “Come. Your Blades are waiting to greet you.”

We led the horses into the Temple's courtyard. There was a stable on the left, and a huge flight of stairs leading upwards. “Should we get the horses settled?” I asked.

Martin shook his head, wanting to get the next part over and done with. “Let's not keep the Blades waiting.”

I nodded. The horses would be fine for a few minutes. It wasn't as though we were going far.

We walked slowly up the staircase, which was broken in the middle by a landing. At the top was a huge paved courtyard containing the Temple proper: a building with two wings and a large central section, all covered in the same curved roofs. There were a few large braziers which would provide light and heat when lit, and a small grassy patch on the right-hand side. Curved walkways on either side led up to the top of the gatehouse.

The entire courtyard was lined with Blades, silently standing to attention in neat rows around the left and right edges. I was utterly in awe; though I noticed that while each of the four races of humans were represented in roughly equal number, there didn't seem to be any elves, Argonians, or Khajiit. I wondered why – if it was due to recent political tensions, or ancient racism.

Martin stopped in his tracks. I tried to imagine how he was feeling. Only six days earlier, he'd been a perfectly ordinary priest of Akatosh in the city of Kvatch. Then his hometown had been destroyed in an attempt to kill him, he'd found out he was heir to the throne, been personally attacked by would-be assassins twice, and had at least one alarming prophetic dream. Frankly, I was amazed that he was holding together as well as he was.

He closed his eyes and took a couple of deep breaths. I was certain that he was praying to Akatosh for strength. Then he walked with Jauffre through the crowd of Blades to stand in front of the Temple.

Jauffre introduced Martin to the crowd. “Blades! Dark times are upon us. The Emperor and his sons were slain on our watch. The Empire is in chaos. But there is yet hope. Here is Martin Septim, true son of Uriel Septim!”

As one, the Blades drew their Akaviri katanas, waving them in the air as they shouted, “Hail, Dragon Born! Hail, Martin Septim! Hail!” To me, Martin looked like he might faint at any moment, keeping himself upright by willpower alone.

Jauffre bowed to Martin. “Your Highness. The Blades are at your command. You will be safe here until you can take up your throne.”

Standing with Guil, Rallus, and Antus at the top of the staircase, I alone caught the terrified flare of Martin's eyes as he realised that Jauffre and the Blades were expecting him to make a speech. His eyes darted around nervously, and he licked his lips before starting, “Jauffre. All of you. I... I know you all expect me to be Emperor. I'll do my best. But... but this is all new to me. I'm not used to giving speeches. But I... I wanted you to know that I appreciate your welcome here. I hope I prove myself worthy of your loyalty in the coming days.” He gulped. “That's it. Thank you.”

Jauffre obviously took pity on the heir, since he went on, “Well, then. Thank you, Martin. We'd all best get back to our duties, eh, Captain?” He nodded at one of the Blades, presumably more senior than the rest; and the man made a signal which broke the formation.

The Blades moved off: some going into the Temple through the main front door, some entering the wings at the sides, others marching up to the gatehouse. Some started patrolling the courtyard area. Martin walked over to us, looking nervous. “You'd better go and deal with the horses,” I told the others. “Ask one of the Blades where you can get some water and food from.”

As they left, Martin sagged. I touched his arm gently, showing my support. He was completely overwhelmed, yet still coping, at least in public. It was only in private that he would let his fear show.

“Not much of a speech, was it?” he said, so close to hysteria that he actually laughed; although it came out as a self-deprecating chuckle. “Didn't seem to bother them, though. The Blades saluting me and hailing me as Martin Septim...”

I didn't find out what else he wanted to say, because at that point Jauffre came over. “Your Highness. I should show you around your Temple. This place was built by Reman Cyrodiil's Akaviri Dragonguard, at the founding of the Second Empire. Since then, it has served the Blades as a headquarters, fortress, and sanctuary.”

“Alix. Please accompany me.” Martin's hand fell onto my shoulder; so I alone was aware of the way he gripped it like a lifeline.

* * *

We walked up a few more stairs, under a canopy supported by pillars in a more traditional Cyrodiilic style, and entered Cloud Ruler Temple through its centre door. Jauffre told us that the enormous room in front of us was called the Great Hall. Its floor was a mixture of wooden planks and flagstones; and there were several long tables and benches placed as if this was the Blades' main dining area. Smaller tables and chairs were pushed to the sides of the room, where a few Blades were sitting with drinks, obviously on a break. Tall wooden pillars and carved arches supported the roof, and I was pleased to see that there were at least _some_ windows: small, and very high up, but a source of natural light nonetheless. Several of the pillars were decorated with large carvings of dragons which stuck out into the room, well above head height.

At the far end of the Great Hall, opposite the door we'd come in through, was an enormous fireplace. It was there, reflected in the firelight, that I suddenly noticed a score of Akaviri katanas hung high on the wall. As I looked around, I realised that each of the arches also had as many katanas as would fit, securely fastened with the blades hanging downwards. Martin and I exchanged a puzzled glance, until Jauffre explained, “Each of the swords once belonged to a Blade who fell in battle.” The heir clutched my shoulder again, telling me he was troubled without a word. I was sure he was brooding over his guilt about having caused people's deaths, and how many more people might die for him over the next few months. I wondered if it would help him to consider that these would be consenting volunteers, and vowed to point it out at the next available opportunity.

We went through a door on the left of the room, to the West Wing. A flight of stairs led upwards, while a couple of stairs led down to a large dormitory. On the floor were dozens of sleeping mats, each with a chest for that Blade to store his or her belongings. Some shelves along the wall held communal spare equipment. Upstairs were two rooms with sliding wooden doors. The first, Jauffre told us, was the Grandmaster's room. Its walls were wooden-panelled, and a large woven rug lay on top of the wooden floor. There was only one sleeping mat, which seemed at odds with the size of the room, especially in comparison to the dormitory downstairs. Stood against one wall was a set of shelves containing potions and books. Next to it was a long table, covered with clutter and useful items such as parchment, an inkwell, and quills. “You and your friends should sleep here tonight,” Jauffre told me.

The Grandmaster opened the door to the final room; and Martin, suddenly dizzy, grabbed my shoulder for support. “This is the Emperor's bedchamber,” said Jauffre; unhelpfully, as the heir and I had already worked that out for ourselves. The room was decorated and furnished in the same sparse style as the rest of Cloud Ruler Temple, but all the items were of the highest quality. It alone had a true bed rather than just a bedroll on the floor: a double bed so large that my brain prompted the word “kingsize” and then laughed at its own pun. The bed was covered with white silken sheets and a golden silk bedspread, and stood on an enormous, expensive-looking rug, with bedside tables at either side. The wooden panelling on the walls was intricately carved, with a scallop-shaped design.

On the left of the room, as we looked at it, were a table, set of shelves, and a trunk. On the right was a large chest of drawers. Every flat surface contained luxury items: vases, bottles of wine, crystal glasses, a silver decanter, a jewellery box which I didn't even dare look in. At the back of the room, behind us, were a velvet-backed armchair and a small sofa, or loveseat.

Martin was as white as the bedsheets. “Do... Do you expect me to sleep _here_ tonight, Jauffre?”

“Why... yes, Your Highness. Is there a problem?”

“Jauffre, please. My name is Martin. And _you know_ what the problem is. This room... Just this room alone is almost the size of the _entire house_ I lived in as a child. It's larger than the priest's residence in Kvatch, where four of us slept.”

“This is what you need to become accustomed to, my lord. The Blades already see you as their Emperor.”

The heir shook his head – in disbelief or denial, I didn't know which. “The Emperor... that's an idea that will take some getting used to.”

I was – and still am – sure that people exist who would be delighted to find out that they were unexpectedly in line for the throne. Such people should not be trusted. It remains my general opinion that anyone who wants power is the worst possible person to hold it. People who crave power never think about the responsibility that comes with it.

Did this mean that Martin – someone who was _drowning_ in responsibilities and concern for others – was actually one of the most appropriate people to receive power? I wasn't sure. I just knew that I felt sorry for him. He was too nice a person to have the fate of the whole world thrust upon him.

We went back downstairs, and crossed the Great Hall. I noticed that my friends had returned from feeding and settling the horses, and were sitting around one of the large tables. They waved as we went past, but did not attempt to join us. Various Blades bowed to Martin as we passed; he still appeared entirely stunned and in shock.

We left through the front door, and turned left, this time entering the East Wing of the building. Jauffre took us down a couple of stairs, and into a room which was obviously the Armoury. Its floor and walls were both made of stone, and lined with shelves containing spare armour and weapons. Articulated training dummies, made of stuffed leather sections strung together from chains, hung in the nearby corners of the room. Several Blades were using them for swordfighting practice. They stopped, and nodded respectfully at Martin, who acknowledged them with a faint smile. At the far end of the room was a forge, with bellows and other blacksmithing tools. I assumed that someone, or several people, were specifically assigned to making and repairing armour.

Then we went upstairs, and it became apparent that Jauffre's tour had been in a very deliberate order. The last room was a library, with a wooden floor, stone-and-wood panelled walls, and plenty of natural light from windows set high in the walls. There were also more lanterns hanging from the ceiling than in the other rooms, giving it a warm and friendly appearance. Many bookshelves were arranged around the room, and Martin's eyes lit up with genuine pleasure for the first time since we had arrived. He went to examine the shelves more closely, and his big hands caressed the tops of the books; almost as if he could absorb information through his fingertips. I noticed that the shelves had been organised in a logical order, and contained books on a variety of topics: including history, politics, the art of war, and religion. There were some more long tables and benches similar to those in the Great Hall; but these were obviously used for studying or relaxation, since piles of books and papers were heaped upon them in a manner which suggested their users would return as soon as they'd finished their duties. There were also a few desks pushed around the edges of the room for people who needed to avoid distraction.

It was quite obvious to me that Martin would be happiest if we simply locked him in a library for safekeeping. Put the minimum number of guards inside, and as many as possible on the outside, then bring him books on whichever subjects he desired. I could imagine the scholarly Emperor curled up on a rug with a big pile of reading material...

“Alix?” said Jauffre, in a tone of voice which suggested he'd already said my name at least once. “I've shown you all of the Temple now, except for the privy and bathrooms. I must speak to Martin privately for a while. Why don't you take your friends upstairs, and then have a wash? We'll be having dinner at 6 pm.”

I nodded, smiled at Martin, and went through the one door that I hadn't already used. As expected, it went back into the Great Hall. I collected the others, and we took our bags up to the Grandmaster's room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you listen closely to Sean Bean's voice acting, then Martin **does** in fact stammer at each of those points in his "speech". Not that I'm a big dork and have listened to videos of this scene over and over, or anything :P


	14. “Just a priest of Akatosh.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alix cleans himself up, finds out more about Martin's past, and reluctantly leaves him behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Discussion of suicide.

I had a bath. It felt like the best bath I'd ever had in my life, even though to get it I'd had to collect something like 10 bucketfuls of water from the well outside, then tip them into a large metal trough with a fire underneath. Was this really the level of technology employed by a fortress that belonged to the _Emperor_? I was vaguely concerned about the possibility of the well running dry with so many inhabitants in Cloud Ruler Temple before realising that, high in the Jerall Mountains, there was always snow on the ground. Maybe we were supposed to use snow for bathwater and save the well water for drinking? I'd need to check.

Wait – _why_ would I need to check? Wasn't my mission simply to accompany Martin to Cloud Ruler Temple, and then I'd be free to return to my studies at the Arcane University? Just like my previous mission had been to collect Martin from Kvatch and bring him to Weynon Priory, and my mission before _that_ had been to take the Amulet of Kings to Jauffre... Okay, part of me was obviously expecting that my reward for a job well done would be another job. But I couldn't just go absent from the University for months on end while this Oblivion crisis continued. Damn. I'd grown to rather like the unexpected heir over the past few days, and I'd miss him when I went back to my normal life.

Guil, Rallus, and Antus tried to engage me in conversation. I tried to join in, but I was oddly distressed that my part in... well, bringing Martin to the throne, was over. Back to Chorrol tomorrow, then back to the Imperial City. All along I'd told myself I was just an ordinary Journeyman of the Mages Guild, and had been caught up in events only by a series of coincidences. Apparently I hadn't been as good at convincing myself as I'd thought.

Dinner was served, and we went into the Great Hall with everyone else. Martin was sitting in a place of honour between Jauffre and the Blades' Captain, with an expression of profound discomfort on his face. I was fairly sure he'd like nothing more than to simply crawl back into the library and shut the door, away from all the prying eyes. It wasn't so much that he was shy, more that he was used to people looking at him because he happened to be the person at the front leading the service; not simply a person at a table trying to eat his meal. Thankfully, someone must have received the memo about his newfound distaste for meat, because the large roast pig which would normally have been placed in front of the most senior person present was considerably further down the table, out of Martin's direct line of sight. A bowl of roast potatoes and other root vegetables was immediately in front of him instead.

Martin picked at his food and eventually mumbled to Jauffre that he was tired and going up to bed. The rest of us ate plenty, since we were hungry and it had been a long time since breakfast. Then I headed upstairs to the Grandmaster's room in the West Wing with my three friends. It wasn't late, but we were all worn out, and needed to rest before repeating the journey in reverse.

Before going to sleep, I went to the Emperor's bedchamber to see whether Martin needed anything. Nodding respectfully at the Blade guarding the entrance, I knocked as quietly as possible before slipping through the sliding door, hoping that he was already fast asleep. Instead, I found him sitting on the edge of the large bed, hunched forward, with an expression of profound misery on his face. He was staring at his enchanted dagger, which rested on his open hands, and seemed utterly preoccupied.

“Martin!” I called, suddenly fearful.

He jumped, dropping the dagger, and nicking his palm on the blade as it fell. “Gods! I... it's... it's not what you think.”

“What do you _think_ that I'm thinking?” I asked him. “Give me your hand.”

Automatically, like a child afraid of punishment, Martin raised his injury for inspection. I sat down next to him and held his hand as I passed a healing spell through it, gently releasing it as the Restoration energy dissipated. Awkwardly, he picked up the dagger and stowed it in his scabbard.

I spoke to him gently. “Now, tell me what's really wrong. You... you're not thinking about hurting yourself, are you?”

“No! I... I know I would be dead by now if it weren't for you. I can't pretend that I don't... that part of me doesn't wish I _had_ died, so I didn't have to live with these memories and... guilt. But not by my own hand. _Never_ by my own hand.” He was agitated and upset, voice decreasing in volume as he spoke, and it was only because I leant in to give him a hug that I heard the end of his statement. “Tried that once, and it didn't work.”

I felt blood drain from my face as my brain went into overdrive. He'd said back in Kvatch that he owed his life to Oleta, the Chapel healer. Had he tried to kill himself before, and been taken to Oleta for healing? Had this happened when he was already a priest, or had he chosen to _become_ a priest while recovering in the Chapel? Was it somehow linked to the secret past trauma, whatever he had done that had caused several of his friends to die?

He had stated clearly that he wasn't suicidal. _Miserable_ , yes. Possibly even homicidal, once we caught those responsible for his father's death. But he wasn't going to give up – at least, _not yet_ \- so I had to content myself with that. However, the scene I'd come in on still didn't make sense.

I pulled back a little, so I could see his eyes and have some clue as to whether he was concealing anything from me. “Martin, I don't understand. If you're not thinking about hurting yourself, _why are you playing with a dagger?_ ”

“Oh!” He stood up, leaving the weapon behind on the bed, and walked to the chest of drawers by the high windows. He returned with the small satchel that he'd carried on our journey. “When I became a priest, I took a vow of poverty. When Kvatch was destroyed, I lost the few possessions I had. Look.” He turned the bag over, letting its contents spill out on the bed. “This is everything I brought with me.”

There was a book: _Ten Commandments: Nine Divines_ , a hairbrush, a razor, some toothsticks, a rather dirty flannel, a small cake of soap, a spare pair of socks, and the two septims he'd mentioned when we were shopping in Skingrad. They tumbled out to join the dagger of Sparks which had travelled with the priest, belted to his side. “Is that it?” I gasped. “No spare clothes?”

“Yes. I had more than one robe, of course. And, um, drawers.” He blushed. “But we ran out of bandages very quickly. People were so badly hurt that we just ripped up all of our spare clothing to try to stop them bleeding. Several of my robes became emergency bedding, and everything else became bandages.” He looked up, blue eyes boring into my brown ones. “I don't regret it.” Each word in that sentence was emphasised. “I'd do it all over again to save lives. But... this is everything I own. Everything _I_ own.”

With a sudden burst of nervous energy, he stood up, and started to pace up and down. Gesturing frantically at the chest of drawers and the valuables out on display, he almost shouted, “Yet now I am transplanted to this place, and told that everything _here_ is _mine_. Who _am_ I? Just a priest of Akatosh.” He wiped a tear away from his cheek. “The bastard heir... of a dead Emperor.”

He threw himself down on the bed, burying his face in his hands. It wasn't enough. He pulled his legs up onto the bed and sat hugging his knees, head buried in a mess of long brown hair, rocking backwards and forwards for comfort. _Abject_ misery... I didn't know how to help someone in that sort of emotional state, but I felt that once again, he was showing me the true feelings that he'd leave buried in front of anyone else.

I sat beside Martin and wrapped my arms around him, pressing my body against his to provide gentle reassurance. He uncurled a little, and we rocked together as I stroked his damp hair.

“They call me 'lord'!” he sobbed. “I am no lord. They do me too much honour. Only _the gods_ deserve such obeisance.”

I dropped a kiss onto his head. I hadn't meant to do it; it was pure instinct. Martin froze for a moment, and I froze in unison. I hadn't meant to reveal so much of myself, that I was a lover of men and rapidly falling in love with him. Then he sighed, and leaned back into my embrace. I held him tightly, knowing that my part in his story was over, and wanting to cry myself.

“Alix?” said Martin, quietly. “Is there any way you could stay? You're... the only person here who cares for me as me. Because of who I am, not what I am.”

“Martin.” I was fighting the urge to weep into his brown floppy hair. “I _can't_. I want to, but I can't. I have to go back to the University.”

He nodded, in resignation rather than acceptance. Much later, I would realise that he hadn't spoken because he couldn't.

“Listen. You're exhausted. You haven't slept properly in _days_. You've had several traumatic experiences in a row. And this... change in circumstances would be a shock even without the events that preceded it. Give yourself time.”

“My head is spinning from everything that has happened,” admitted Martin.

“I'm not surprised. It's a lot to deal with.” I shook my head. “Now, I think you really need to get some sleep.”

“You're right,” he muttered. “I... Thank you.”

“Shh!” I said. “Lie down. I'll use Sinderion's Calm spell to help you relax.”

“Yes. Um... Will you stay with me? Just until I fall asleep. I...”

I interrupted him before he could wind himself up again. “It would be an honour.” I turned my back to allow him to strip off without embarrassing himself. Once he was in the bed, I pulled the velvet-backed armchair over from the other side of the room, placed it alongside the bed and sat down. “Try to sleep.”

I sat by Martin's bedside, weaving the complex Calm spell, until his breathing slowed and deepened. Then I tiptoed out of the room to the one next door. My friends' bedrolls were laid out on the floor in such a way that Rallus was sleeping with his head on Guil's chest, snuggled into his side. They'd left a space for me between Guil and Antus, which I was rather touched by. I pulled the door shut, threw off my clothes, and wriggled into the gap. Warmed by the other bodies, I quickly fell asleep – though not before feeling rather sorry for Martin, all alone in the next room.

* * *

The next morning, I woke late. I couldn't even remember the last time I'd got enough sleep, though I knew it must have been back in my own bed at the Arcane University. I'd lost track of the days, and had to count on my fingers to figure it out. 2nd Heartfire, I thought it was. A week since the Emperor's assassination. Only a _week_?

I wanted another bath. Actually, I wanted _ten_ more baths, in a row, and then never to have to move again. Except I had responsibilities. Wandering downstairs, I found my friends sitting in the Great Hall with breakfast. I expected them to be clowning around like usual, but it seemed they were rather overawed by the display of Akaviri katanas hanging from the ceiling: each one representing a fallen Blade.

“We should get going,” Guil told me. “We didn't want to wake you because you were obviously exhausted, but we need to get back to our farms now that Martin is safe.”

I nodded. “Yeah. You're right. Thanks for coming with me, guys. I really do appreciate it.”

“Martin's already thanked us. He's... not at all what I thought an Emperor would be like.” Rallus seemed starstruck. “He actually seems to understand what it's like to run the farm and have to pay bills. I... I think he'll do a really good job.”

“He asked for you to stop in and see him before we leave,” said Antus, quietly. His arm was still splinted and bandaged, but he seemed to be recovering well. “He seemed a bit afraid that you might leave without saying goodbye.”

“Why would he think that?” I was confused. “I'll go and see him now.”

“We'll go and pack everything back on the horses,” said Guil. “Don't be too long.”

Martin was easy to find. It was obvious from touring the Temple the previous day that his biggest interest was in the library. Both of his previous vocations – first a mage, then a priest – were career paths that you simply didn't get into unless you loved learning. I wondered if he was going to teach himself how to be Emperor by reading. By the Nine, if there _were_ any book to teach a person how to run the Empire, it would be in Cloud Ruler Temple!

The priest... heir, whatever, was sitting at a table on the only high-backed chair in the room, with a good-natured though slightly quizzical expression on his face, as Blades brought him books from the shelves and bowed low.

“Hello, my friend,” he said, as I approached. He patted the stool next to him, bidding me sit down.

“Am I your friend now?” I teased.

Martin responded in kind. “I think, after everything you've done for me, that it's the _least_ I can call you. Would you prefer 'Protector'? 'Guardian Angel'? How about 'Most Noble Companion'?”

“'Friend' will do fine,” I smiled. “Isn't that quite a privilege, though? I got the impression that you don't have many friends.”

The heir was suddenly more serious. “That's true. I... I wouldn't call you 'friend' if I didn't mean it, Alix. Don't... betray my honour.”

“I would never betray you,” I said, in all sincerity, looking directly into his blue eyes.

Martin smiled, but the smile faded before it had even reached his eyes. “This whole business of being heir to the throne is very strange. Everyone keeps calling me by honorifics instead of my name. I tell them my name is Martin and they say ' _Yes_ , my lord'. I'll miss you.” That last statement was tucked on the end almost as an afterthought, but I knew it wasn't. “You're the only one who calls me by name.”

“Well, maybe you'll be able to change their minds given time.” Why was I still talking? I had two days of riding ahead of me, and friends who were waiting for me to be ready so we could ride back to Chorrol together. Martin obviously had work of his own to do – I was sure that large pile of books hadn't been gathered _only_ to pass the time.

But he also seemed unwilling to let me go. He ran his hands through his hair, awkwardly. “Will you write to me?” The uncomfortable expression on his face, as he tried to look everywhere but at me, was endearing. He stretched, seeming all elbows.

“I'll do my best. I'll miss you, too.” I started to reach towards him but stopped, suddenly unsure what kind of relationship we had, exactly. I tried to hide the movement by standing up, as if preparing to depart. Martin stood up with me.

“Um...” The heir was blushing. “Alix, you... you _hug_ your friends, don't you?”

“Oh! Um, yes. I do.” I felt _my_ face heat up as well. That was possibly the clumsiest request I'd ever heard. If it _was_ a request.

“Then, erm... can we?” Eloquency seemed to have slipped out of the window. We both felt ridiculously self-conscious, even though the Blades were all very carefully Not Looking in our direction. That almost made it worse.

Was anyone else going to hug the poor soul? No. They were all too overwhelmed by his lineage, by the great Dragon Blood, by all of the rules and regulations carefully laid down over centuries. Could they even see that this man they were hailing as their Emperor was grieving, anxious, in shock – desperately afraid to have the fate of the world suddenly placed upon his shoulders?

I held my arms out to him. “Come here,” I said. He took the single step towards me, both of us blushing like maidens. I wrapped my arms around his back, pulling him tight. After a heartbeat, he reciprocated, putting both arms around me, dropping his head onto my shoulder, and inhaling the scent of my hair. Surreptitiously, I did the same. Gods, he smelled... like _home_.

“Don't worry about me, my friend. I know I'm in good hands here,” he whispered in my ear. He stepped back, moving his hands down to my arms so we could look each other in the eyes. “Go with Akatosh. I'll pray for your safe return.”

“Take care, Martin. I hope to see you again one day.” I deliberately let go, while I still could.

“Farewell, Alix.” He gave a little wave.

I ran from the room, knowing that if I looked back I wouldn't want to leave. Poor Martin. Looking for a way to stop Oblivion itself from spilling into Mundus, and all I could give him was a _hug_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An earlier version of the last scene is [already on Ao3](http://archiveofourown.org/works/623426).


	15. “Daedra, again!”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alix and his friends return to Chorrol only to find another Oblivion Gate. Then Alix runs into an old friend who divulges some more of Martin's past.

Our journey back to Chorrol was entirely unexciting. I was feeling decidedly odd – as if half of me felt like I'd left my sole reason for existing behind in Cloud Ruler Temple. My friends tried to tease me about my “crush” on Martin; but without any real force behind the words, since they had all been captivated by him as well. I wondered what he'd been like as a priest – if he'd had that powerful charisma then, or if it had somehow been transferred to him with his father's death. I had a vague idea of the Chapel of Akatosh being packed on the days he was speaking, with teenage girls and old ladies (and maybe a few men who preferred men?) hanging on every word, then manufacturing an excuse to talk to him personally. Ah, what was I _thinking?_ I would certainly have to speak to some of the survivors in Kvatch, next time I happened to pass that way, though.

By mutual consent we avoided both the Wayshrine of Akatosh and the Ayleid well, not fancying a repeat of any... strange behaviour. We stopped for the night close to Shadow's Rest Cavern – but not _inside_ the cavern, since it was fairly obviously inhabited by monsters of some sort. Even enthusiastic young Antus was too wary after the attack by the Emperor's assassins to want to go on a monster-slaying expedition for fun. We slept in the tent, huddled together for warmth, then packed up and got going.

We expected a simple goodbye, for Guil and I to drop the Odiil boys back at their farm, before heading to Weynon Priory to deliver messages from Jauffre. That didn't happen. The sinister red glow of the Oblivion Gate was visible from miles away. By the time we approached Chorrol, its position was clear: a massive portal growing out of the meagre fields of the Odiil Farm, its evil eye focused on Weynon Priory. _Divines_.

We had assumed that the ambush on the road near Bruma meant that Mehrunes Dagon and his supporters knew that Martin was on the way to Cloud Ruler Temple. Either we were wrong, or they wanted to hit Weynon Priory for another reason: as the source of Blades intelligence, perhaps? As we rode towards the Oblivion Gate, spurring our horses on, I told my friends everything I knew about the one near Kvatch, and we came up with a plan of attack. We'd drop Antus Odiil off at the North Gate to Chorrol, to get help from the Mages Guild, Fighters Guild, and Chapel healers. I assumed he was well-enough known in the city to be able to get at least _some_ of those people to come, and he could use my name as credit if necessary. Guilbert Jemane would call upon the Chorrol City Guard, then go to Weynon Priory to check on the health of Brother Piner and Eronor. Rallus Odiil would creep into the farmhouse in the hope of finding his father, Valus, still alive. And I would sneak through the Gate with my Chameleon spell, and run like the wind to the top of the tower that contained the Sigil Stone. Should I not return within a reasonable amount of time, Rallus, Guil, and whatever volunteers they could muster would enter the Gate, hoping for strength in numbers.

The fact I'd been into the plane of Oblivion once before made it both easier and harder to go in again. Easier, because I knew what to expect; and harder, for the exact same reason. It helped that I knew I didn't need to fight any daedra if I could possibly avoid them: I simply had to close the Gate. But the memory of the stomach-churning stench, the huge, horrendously sharp spikes that could rip a person in two, the pulsating bags of flesh... None of those were things I could prepare myself for.

Obviously, I survived. I fell out of the portal as it closed, to find a pile of dead daedra leaking their guts into what had previously been the Odiils' best cornfield (thank the Nine they'd already brought in their harvest!), and a small army of mages, fighters, and City Guards staring at me. I was entirely filthy, my hair black with soot, but clearly human. Brother Piner and Eronor were safe and well, Rallus and Antus Odiil were hugging their father as he cursed the daedra, Reynald Jemane was drunkenly embracing his brother, and no one seemed to have died. A fair number of people lay injured, but the various priests, mages, and Chapel healers had the situation well in hand. I wasn't needed, thank gods.

Which was just as well, because I was promptly attacked by a very angry Argonian in a Mages Guild robe. “I _told_ you that man Martin was trouble!” he shrieked. “Daedra, again!”

Damn it! Everyone who was still standing was looking at me, and Teekeeus shouted so loudly that everyone who was nearby heard what he'd said. I put my arm round him to draw him away from the crowd, but he pushed my arm back, clawing me a little. “I don't want that stink on my best robe!”

“Fine.” I held up my hands, showing him the Sigil Stone that I'd taken from the tower. “I need to tell you something.” Then I cast the Cone of Silence spell.

Teekeeus hissed through his sharp teeth in annoyance, not least of all at having his audience forcibly removed. “What?”

“Martin isn't here. We took him to Bruma. He was not responsible for bringing those daedra here. Though they were certainly looking for him.”

“Well, of course they were! The man _cavorts_ with daedra!” The Argonian whipped his tail around, fiercely. “You know the rules of Conjuration that we teach to all the new students: Never summon anything you can't control. And never summon anything at all unless there is a much more powerful mage present.”

Teekeeus was Head of the Chorrol Guildhall, which specialised in Conjuration. So he was no doubt intimately familiar with all of the ways in which summoning could go wrong; as well as an expert in cleaning up other mages' messes. 

“Silly young idiot summoned a Dremora Lord to impress his friends when he was drunk, and everyone but himself died.”

I'm sure I stood there with my mouth gaping like a fish. _That_ was what had got Martin expelled from the Mages Guild? _Ouch._

“He nearly died too. Would have, if it weren't for Oleta, the Master Restoration trainer. She saved his life, for what use _that_ is. He turned to religion, supposedly as a penance. But I can't believe he's changed.” Teekeeus gave up on Cyrodiilic and started grumbling to himself in Jel, a language almost unpronounceable to those without an Argonian tongue. 

I held up my right hand in the universal gesture for “stop”, and he glared at me, eyes narrowed into slits. “Teekeeus, do you know about the Dragonfires of Akatosh?”

“Of course. They are in the Temple of the One, in the Imperial City. The priest there is a distant relative of mine, Jeelius.” He began preening his head spines, much as I might comb my hair with my fingers. “They are lit by the Emperor of Tamriel as part of the coronation ceremony.”

“They're more important than that. Brother Jauffre, who you met, believes that they are part of the magical barriers that protect Mundus from Oblivion.”

“That's certainly possible.” Now that we were talking magical theory, Teekeeus was paying more interest to the discussion. “Since the Emperor's death, they have been dark for the first time in centuries.” His eyes widened as he made the logical connection. “Journeyman, are you saying that these Gates to Oblivion have something to do with Emperor Uriel's death?”

“Yes. Jauffre and I think so.”

“But what does this have to do with Martin Draconis? Apart from his fondness for daedra.”

I glanced upwards to check that the magical sound barrier held. “Martin's father was Uriel Septim.”

Teekeeus shrieked in horror. “If this is an attempt at humour, I am not amused!”

“It's the gods' own truth. Uriel Septim believed it, the Blades believe it, and Mehrunes Dagon _certainly_ believes it. Kvatch was destroyed in an attempt to kill Uriel's last heir.”

The Guildhall Head stared at me, his reptilian eyes boring into mine.

“Martin may have done something terrible when he was younger, but he saved as many of the people of Kvatch as he could. He's grown into a good man. He's not just a believer in the Divines, he's gods-touched. He has _dreams_. And... he may be the only person standing between our world and Oblivion.”

“He's a bastard,” declared Teekeeus.

“Yes. But he's _Uriel Septim_ 's bastard.”

“I wasn't referring to his parentage!” The Argonian sighed. “If he is to be Emperor, Divines help us all. Still, if you say he is the chosen of Akatosh, it would be beneath me to continue hating the man he is now. Why has he not already been crowned?”

“Because the Amulet of Kings was stolen by these Dagon cultists.” I waved my hand at the smoking remains of the Oblivion Gate. “Without that as proof of his identity, Martin is nothing more than an Imperial male with an uncanny resemblance to the last Emperor.”

Teekeeus looked more horrified than he had at any other point in the conversation. “The Blades _lost_ the Amulet of Kings? You need to inform the Arch-Mage immediately!”

“We were rather hoping to keep it a secret, I think. Um. Not that I'm a Blade or anything. I just got roped in to help.” I shrugged, starting to feel rather ill. 

“The people summoning these Oblivion Gates into existence must be priests or mages. The Arch-Mage needs to know that perhaps some of our own people cannot be trusted. He also needs to know that the Gate at Kvatch was not a one-off, that they will continue to spawn until the new Emperor can be crowned.” Teekeeus peered at me, perhaps realising that I was close to falling over with exhaustion. “I do not wish for you to spill Imperial secrets, but it would be in the best interest of all if the Council of Mages was working on a solution to these problems.”

He was right. We might disagree sometimes – often – but unlike certain other Guildhall Heads, Teekeeus was entirely loyal to the Mages Guild, and concerned about more than just his own interests. I could inform the Arch-Mage that the daedric attacks would continue until a new heir to the throne was crowned _without_ telling everyone that an heir had been found.

The Argonian wrapped his arm around me in concession, no longer caring about getting the sulphuric stench on his clothes. “Come back to the Guildhall and have a hot bath, then we'll find you something to eat. I'm afraid it will have to be you who carries this news to the Arcane University, since the task requires a great deal of care and security. Then, I think, you should return to Martin's hiding place.”

I had come to that conclusion myself, through a combination of guilt and fear. “I agree, but why do you think so?”

Teekeeus flapped his spare hand in disgust. “These Blades, they are soldiers and spies. Not mages. Martin may be the only mage there, and he is only half-trained. They need someone who understands magic. You already know their secrets, you are wise beyond your years, and you are not yet well-known. You are the obvious choice for the Guild to send.”

Huh.

* * *

Several hours later, I said goodbye to my friends by Weynon Priory. The Odiils were returning to their farm for now with Brother Piner and Orag, the Priestess of the Chapel of Stendarr, in the hope that they could clear up the daedric mess. Guil was planning to spend a few days in Chorrol, to drag his brother to the Chapel healers and see whether they could do anything to curb his excessive drinking; then eventually returning to Weatherleah. We hugged each other hard, knowing that all of the people of Tamriel were threatened by Mehrunes Dagon.

I rode back to the Imperial City, encountering several mounted Imperial Guards, but no one else until I reached Weye. Lake Rumare looked glorious in the evening sun, light reflecting off its sea-blue surface. Riding across the Talos Bridge, I caught my first sight of the Imperial City in seven days. Its white marble walls had been home for me for years, ever since my family had encouraged me to leave High Rock for my own safety. My heart swelled to see it, yet I still felt there was something missing. Was it simply that it was the first time I'd been alone in a week, and I'd become used to the company?

Wishing that the late Prior Maborel had told me his horse's name, I left her at Chestnut Handy Stables. I would have to think of an appropriate appellation before leaving the City again. Now, I had three things to achieve before I could return to Cloud Ruler Temple, and a strict order to do them in. Return to the Arcane University, apologising profusely to the Dean of Students for my absence. Speak to the Arch-Mage about the Oblivion Gates. And get some sleep in my own bed, since only the Nine Divines could possibly know when I was likely to see it again. Oh dear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of my favourite chapters in the story, and I've been waiting to post it since **August**! I like to keep a buffer of a few chapters in case I decide I need to change something, but life has been very difficult for the past few months and I've had no spare energy to write :/
> 
> Note that while Teekeeus is rather forthcoming about Martin's expulsion from the Mages Guild, he's not entirely correct. Whether he is lacking the full story or is simply unwilling to share it will become clear later.


	16. “There was... an incident.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alix asks for permission to temporarily leave the Arcane University, gives his horse a name, rides back to Cloud Ruler Temple, and hears from Jauffre what has happened in his absence.

Grovelling to the Dean of Students would have been mortifying were it anyone other than Raminus Polus. As it was, it was only dreadfully embarrassing. I found him an hour or so after suppertime, walking in the gardens of the University. He must have seen my approach, since he made a beeline towards me.

“Ah, Journeyman? I understand that you've been absent without leave lately. Do you wish to discuss it?” His tone of voice made it rather clear that _not_ discussing it would affect my standing within the Guild.

“I do, Master-Wizard Polus. But it's rather personal. Is there anywhere truly private we could go?”

The Imperial man gave me a rather stern glare, which wilted when I shifted towards the light and he caught sight of me properly. I had washed both myself and my robe several times over the past week, but it was still dirty and bloodstained. My hair was sweaty and severely blown about, escaping from its pony tail in straggly rats-tails. My face was burnt by both sun and wind. Most of all, despite my recent bath in fragranced oil, I still smelled like something out of Oblivion. He recoiled.

“Uh... yes, Alix. Why don't we go to the Arch-Mage's Lobby and we can talk there?”

We walked to the Arch-Mage's Tower in silence. A couple of times, Raminus seemed about to speak, but stopped himself. I was too tired to make polite conversation.

Entering the Lobby, he asked me “Now, Alix. What's this all about?”

I glanced around, anxiously, before casting Detect Life. There didn't seem to be anyone concealed by Invisibility or Chameleon spells...

“Alix?”

“Sorry,” I replied. “I was just checking that no one was hiding here.” Raising my hands, I cast Cone of Silence.

“Journeyman? What is so secret that it requires this degree of paranoia?” The Master-Wizard appeared uncertain whether I was carrying out some elaborate, entirely out-of-character practical joke, or if I had become unhinged in some way: perhaps a misfiring spell or cursed artifact. His hands flexed, as if he expected to have to cast Paralysis any second.

I'd been thinking of how to explain myself for days. Knowing that he was on the Council of Mages and utterly loyal to Arch-Mage Traven made it easier. I wasn't exactly sure of the relationship between the Council of Mages and the Empire, but doubted that any sane mage could possibly welcome the barriers between Oblivion and Mundus being torn down. A few utterly insane Conjuration practitioners, perhaps, the ones who _enjoyed_ “cavorting” with daedra. No one who valued the lives of ordinary mortals.

Thus I told him almost everything, starting from my false arrest, including my meeting with Emperor Uriel, and receiving the Amulet of Kings. I left out some of the place names, and some of the people's names. I'd wanted to tell him nothing at all about Martin, but I'd realised during my ride that I didn't want the Mages Guild using magic to seek out Septim heirs. Too many people could get involved, and that would simply endanger the priest in his hiding place.

So I mentioned only the fact that one heir remained, and that he had been in Kvatch. While news had spread of the daedric attack on the city, there had been few eyewitness accounts, and none at all by a mage. The Dean's eyes widened in horror as I described what I'd seen, and widened further still when I told him about the second Oblivion Gate outside Chorrol.

“I also have a letter here for the Arch-Mage from Teekeeus, who witnessed the Oblivion Gate today.” The envelope was addressed in the Argonian's easily-recognisable handwriting, and sealed in wax with his personal stamp. Even I didn't know the exact contents of the letter.

The Master-Wizard nodded. “We should go to the Arch-Mage immediately. Unfortunately, he's not here right now. He's in a meeting with the Elder Council, probably to discuss some of these issues.”

“Damn it.” I closed my eyes and swayed on my feet, suddenly overwhelmed with fatigue. “Should I wait until he returns?”

“Honestly? You look like you need to go to bed. I have your personal testimony, and the letter from Teekeeus. I can pass all of this information on to Arch-Mage Traven when he returns. Meanwhile, I'll arrange for a special dispensation for you to be elsewhere for the rest of this term. Teekeeus is right – we need a reliable mage on the inside, helping the Blades. It can go on the official records that you're travelling for your research. Although please keep us informed of the situation. Preferably in person.”

I nodded, too tired to say anything much at all. Raminus still seemed a little perturbed.

“Alix? This _isn't_ all a strange practical joke, is it? I can't believe someone with your grades and history would disappear for a week and then come back with this story.”

I shook my head. “Honestly? I wish it was. But I can't un-wish saving the heir to the throne's life. The Empire needs him.”

* * *

Knowing that I needed to get straight back to Martin stopped me from spending as much time in the City as I wanted to. I hoped he was starting to settle into his strange new existence, but I rather feared he might not be. I couldn't forget the way he'd begged me to stay with him, and said he'd pray for my safe return – or the way he'd clamped his hand against my shoulder for emotional support as we'd toured Cloud Ruler Temple. I certainly couldn't forget how he'd struggled to sleep each night despite his obvious exhaustion, or the hours he'd spent in desperate entreaties with the gods. I wished I hadn't insisted that I needed to get back to my university research, and had simply written a letter to explain my absence to the Arch-Mage instead.

And that second Oblivion Gate had shaken me up. The first one was... I hesitate to write “understandable”, but there was a clear purpose to it, barbaric and inhumane though it was. The Daedric Prince of Destruction wanted to kill the last of the Septim line, and it seemed less effort to destroy the entire town than to have to search for the man he wanted. There was a certain kind of twisted logic to it. The second Gate, however, was confusing. Why had Mehrunes Dagon or his followers opened it where and when they did? Surely they knew that Martin was already at Cloud Ruler Temple, or we wouldn't have been ambushed near Bruma? I had to get that news back to Jauffre in case he was still unaware of it.

So I woke up as early as I could, and packed the majority of my possessions. I didn't want to be like poor Martin, reduced to borrowing robes because all of mine were gone. I took clothes, toiletries, potions, alchemy ingredients, and books – even novels, in case they were useful for entertaining a bored and frustrated Emperor-to-be who wasn't allowed to leave his fortress. Frankly, I wasn't sure what _would_ be useful, so I took as much as my horse could carry.

I had breakfast at the University, cadged supplies for lunch, and limped back to the Chestnut Handy Stables. Let's not even talk about saddle sores: no amount of Convalescence spells, healing ointments, or padded leather trousers were going to help with the amount of riding I'd been doing over the past eight days. My body needed time to rest and heal; time which I wasn't going to have until I'd finished my travels. Prior Maborel's painted mare was looking in rather better condition than me. I still didn't know her name, and unless Jauffre happened to remember, I likely never would. She needed a new name, something I could call her. Given that Prior Maborel had been a Breton like me, I decided to call his horse by a typical Breton name. Amelie? Mirabelle? I was halfway to Aleswell when the name hit me: Barbara. My aunt had once owned a painted mare who looked rather similar to this one, and _she_ was named Barbara. The aunt, that is, not the horse. Ah, it sounds disrespectful, but she was one of my favourite aunts, and her name seemed to suit the mare's lively personality.

I spent the whole day on horseback, stopping only in the villages of Aleswell and Bleaker's Way to allow Barbara to graze somewhere safely away from the main roads. There was still relatively little traffic compared to usual for this time of year, and no one bothered me as I rode. It was late afternoon when I left Bleaker's Way, but I didn't want to stop again unless I had to. I knew I'd feel frustrated if I spent the night in Bruma, knowing that my true destination was so close.

* * *

It was pitch black by the time I arrived at Cloud Ruler Temple, and I'd been riding with a light spell overhead for hours. That, and the fortress's lofty position meant that Barbara and I had been clearly visible as we'd climbed the last few miles of winding road. Thus I was entirely unsurprised to be met at the gate by two armoured guards. I recognised Cyrus, the Redguard who had greeted Martin, but not the other Blade with him. Cyrus stepped back in surprise as he, in turn, remembered me.

“Hello, Cyrus,” I said, dismounting from my horse. “I came back.”

The Redguard shifted from side to side, looking rather uneasy. “Uh... Were you the Breton mage who accompanied our lord on his journey here?”

“Yes. My name is Alix de Feu. Martin asked me to return as soon as I could.” I went on, because neither of the Blades seemed very comfortable, exchanging unhappy glances. “I sorted out my business with the Mages Guild and came back. Um... Is everything all right?”

Cyrus came to a decision. “I'll go and get the Grandmaster. Don't let him in without the Grandmaster's permission!” He sprinted off as fast as it was possible to run in heavy armour, leaving the nameless guard and myself eyeing each other nervously. In other circumstances, I'd have made conversation to pass the time, but the poor Blade was already fingering his katana, and I didn't want to distract him. Instead, I simply let Barbara walk, so she could begin to cool down before entering the stables.

After a few minutes, Cyrus returned with Jauffre, who was back in his monk's habit. I had a feeling that perhaps he might have been about to go to bed, and had simply thrown on his robe instead of dealing with the many buckles and lacings of his Blades armour.

Jauffre peered at me suspiciously, checking my appearance carefully under torchlight. “Tell me the first thing I said to you when you arrived at Weynon Priory that first time.”

“Uh...” Thank Julianos for my verbal memory. “'I'm Brother Jauffre. What do you want?'” I tried to mimic my fellow Breton's grumpy tones, but elicited only a grimace in response.

“And remind me of your standing in your guild?”

“I'm a Journeyman of the Mages Guild. Been studying for seven years at the Arcane University, and taught by my family before that.” I could have performed other tricks to prove my identity, but didn't think conjuring up a Fireball or turning myself invisible with Chameleon would have been terribly reassuring.

He nodded. “Yes, this _does_ seem to be Alix de Feu. Thank you, Cyrus. You did right to fetch me.” He gestured towards the gate, and the two guards opened it just wide enough to allow Barbara and I to pass through.

Jauffre accompanied me to the stable, and stood silently as I got his late friend's horse settled. Knowing her well, he assisted me with loosening the cinch under the saddle, removing the rest of her tack, rubbing her down, and checking her over for sores. She seemed to have survived the long ride with fewer of those than I had, though I cast Restoration spells on the worst of them anyway. I'd have to remember to get one of the stable boys to check on her again in the morning. Removing her saddle completely, I poured some fresh water into her trough, and searched for any stones trapped in her feet. Then I dumped a decent quantity of hay into her stall.

“Jauffre, is something wrong?” I asked. “Everyone is so jumpy tonight.”

The Grandmaster shook his head. “Not here, Alix. Not even with your spell.”

We climbed the flights of stairs and crossed the courtyard in silence. The handful of Blades guarding the walls seemed subdued, more so than I thought usual for the late hour or the chill in the air. The mood in the Great Hall was even more solemn, almost sombre. The Blades on rest breaks were sitting around aimlessly, even sadly. Something in their expressions reminded me of Baurus and the deep grief he'd felt after Emperor Uriel's death. But why should they be so changed? A few days earlier, everyone was jubilant, buoyed up by Martin's arrival. They'd lost the Amulet of Kings, but Martin was safe... wasn't he? The unease I felt intensified into real fear.

Jauffre took the shortest possible route to the Grandmaster's room, straight into the West Wing and up the staircase. Once we had entered, he sat down heavily on his chair, indicating that I should sit on the floor. I didn't want to sit, I wanted to pace up and down. But I also needed information, and didn't wish to antagonise the one person who was in a position to give it to me. Something was clearly wrong, and I was afraid what it might be.

I cast my Cone of Silence spell. Jauffre nodded in approval as he saw the air above us shimmer, turning slightly opaque as the soundproof barrier formed.

I turned on him immediately. “What's wrong? Has something happened to Martin?”

The elderly man did not answer immediately, as if struggling to find the right words. “Martin is... not well.” His hesitation told me it was a euphemism.

I felt my eyes widen in panic. “Is he all right?”

Jauffre grimaced. “He's alive, if that's what you mean. But he isn't well at all. There was... an incident.”

“What kind of incident? Is he hurt?” My voice was getting both louder and higher-pitched. I had to fight the urge to spring to my feet and shake the Grandmaster until he told me what had happened.

Jauffre closed his eyes, his deep sigh proof that this was going to be a difficult story to get through. “On Sundas night, Martin went to bed early. He'd spent the day trying to read but couldn't concentrate. He _said_ he was still tired from his travel.” He broke off for a moment, and gazed at me. “He... wasn't able to sleep well. He kept having nightmares.”

I did not reply, my alarmed expression saying everything I needed to.

“At one point, Martin screamed so loudly that the Blades guarding his room burst in, fearing assassins. Martin sat up.” The old man's speech seemed to slow down, his words wider spaced. He rubbed his hand against his forehead, as if it hurt. “But he wasn't really awake. He didn't see Blades in uniform, he saw Dremora from Kvatch...”

I said a couple of bad words, cursing both the situation and myself. Martin had been suffering from hauntings throughout the time I'd known him. We'd be talking or riding or eating and suddenly he'd find his mind filled with unpleasant memories that blocked all other thoughts. Jauffre's description made it sound as though he'd moved onto _relivings_ – when the memories were strong enough to overwhelm reality for a while, making you believe you were actually back in that awful situation. The fact he'd been half-asleep could hardly have helped.

Jauffre and I were both bloody _idiots_ not to have realised this was a possibility. He was Grandmaster of the Blades – a military operation. Everyone who knew soldiers knew that sometimes they came back from battle changed, with minds affected from what they'd seen in combat. Martin was no soldier, but he'd lived through several days of Oblivion on Mundus, seeing horrors that no mortal could even comprehend. Then he'd had several long days of anxious travel, always on the lookout for potential assassins. It was hardly surprising that he'd broken down upon finally reaching safety.

“So what happened?” I demanded, wanting this terrible tale to reach its conclusion.

“He attacked his guards. He didn't mean to, but he thought they were daedra. He launched Ice magic at them. Almost killed them.”

“Oh gods.” Blood had drained from my face, and I shuddered, feeling suddenly too sick to prompt Jauffre to continue.

“They couldn't fight back – he is their Emperor and they are sworn to protect him. They tried to shake him out of the memories, but he wouldn't respond. It was only when Roliand shouted his name, 'Martin!', that he came back to reality. And when he realised what had happened, he fell apart.”

I was hugging my knees for comfort, nauseated beyond belief. It was worse than I'd suspected. He'd been angry, miserable, and frightened – I'd left him alone in Cloud Ruler Temple without anyone he could call friend - and then he'd had a reliving that had blocked out reality to the point he'd harmed innocents... “Gods!”

“Since then, he hasn't left his room. He won't eat, won't sleep... I don't know what to do. I _think_ it's only shock, but he... We had to take his dagger away because he wasn't safe to be left alone with it, and he cried like a baby. I _don't think_ his wits are damaged, but he's not able to be an Emperor right now. He's barely a human being.”

I felt so ill. This happened on _Sundas?_ Though I'd travelled at the uppermost limit of magically-enhanced horsepower, I was certain it must already be Middas. “This is my fault. If I'd been here to cast Sinderion's Calm spell...”

Jauffre shook his head. “Don't blame yourself, Alix. If anything, it is _my_ fault. I should have realised how badly traumatised he was, and warned the guards about relivings and nightmares. I should have put someone inside the room...”

I stood up, breaking through the list of recriminations. “I need to see him.”

The Grandmaster turned even paler. “Alix, don't you understand? He's not safe right now. If he hurts _you_ , he might never recover...”

“He's my friend, not my Emperor. I can protect myself.” With those words, I cast Ice Shield, and ran next door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's _hard_ writing about PTSD in a society which doesn't have our modern psychology, or even any of the older terms like "shell shock". In other stories, I've used modern words for things, with the excuse that I'm translating from Cyrodiilic into English. But I found it was awfully jarring to write about "flashbacks". So I've borrowed "reliving" from Patricia Briggs' Hurog series,  Dragon Bones and Dragon Blood, and added "haunting" to distinguish intrusive thoughts from a full-blown flashback.
> 
> Next chapter: Intensely Broken Martin. *rubs hands together with glee*
> 
> Comments are still welcome :)


	17. “Do you think he will recover?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Martin is very, very unwell with what we would call post-traumatic stress disorder, and Alix has to use a good deal of common sense and a little bit of magic to help him.
> 
> Trigger warnings: PTSD, self-harm, suicidal ideation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see my rather-neglected DeviantArt account for pictures of [Martin and Alix in Elder Scrolls Online](http://baratron.deviantart.com/gallery/)! Please see the end Notes for an apology and explanation for why there was such a long gap between the last Chapter and this one.

Jauffre's words had not been enough to prepare me for the state of the Emperor. Martin was huddled between the sheets in the foetal position, dressed only in a thin nightgown. His hair, which had been sleek and glossy only a few days earlier, hung in lank clumps around his gaunt face. Hollow eyes stared out like those of a wounded animal hiding from hunters. The sleeves of his robe were pushed up, and I saw dozens of reddened half-moon shapes on his arms where he'd clawed himself with fingernails. Worse still was his pallor – he was whiter and sicker-looking than he had been in Weynon Priory with blood pouring out of his back.

“Martin?” I called his name softly as I walked towards the bed, not wanting to alarm him. He didn't respond in any way. Not even when I spoke his name again, very close to his face, and stroked his dirty hair. He blinked slowly – too slowly. I couldn't tell if he was awake, asleep, or in some intermediate state.

Gods! My friend's appearance reminded me of one of the most unpleasant parts of my mage apprenticeship. I'd been taken with my fellow students to a remote corner of the Arcane University, where a small hospice was hidden for mages whose minds had become damaged by magic. Fortunately there was only one resident – unfortunately she had once been an extremely powerful mage, a Master-Wizard and teacher at the University, no less. She had been trying to open a mysterious artifact from an Ayleid tomb using a carefully-crafted spell of the Destruction school, but her spell had rebounded from a ward buried deep within the artifact's structure. Now she was left lying broken-minded for up to twenty hours a day. Her nurses used powerful Command Humanoid spells to get her moving, to make her clean herself, eat, and exercise – keeping her body healthy just in case one day, her wits recovered, or another mage worked out how to reverse the damage. But she had already been in that condition for the best part of a decade, and it seemed likely that she'd die of old age first.

It was several salutary lessons in one. Never mess with strange artifacts without a great deal of care and warding spells. Remember that an artifact which appears safe might be concealing hidden traps or curses. Always document your research, so other people can help you if you get into trouble. And be aware that magic can be forgotten over time. It was the last of those which had surprised me the most, coming as I did from a family of mages. We had an extensive library of magical tomes and scrolls, many of them hand-written, going back centuries. How could one family in High Rock keep better records than the headquarters of the Mages Guild in Cyrodiil? Of course, once I'd become more familiar with the Mystic Archives, I'd realised that I'd been arrogantly underestimating the Guild's holdings.

Thinking of that poor woman reminded me of something important. In the few minutes I'd been in the room, Martin had blinked a mere handful of times. I wasn't sure if he even knew that I was present. But although he lay completely limp, almost catatonic, the only fluids staining his sheets were tears and sweat. No one here was capable of casting a Command Humanoid spell to get him up to use a chamber pot. So he must be having periods of lucidity, implying that his wits were intact, despite the evidence to the contrary. That was good.

I looked around the room for any clues which might explain his appearance. A jug of water on the bedside table had bubbles in it, as if it had been standing a long time. The cup next to it was completely dry. The chamber pot next to the bed contained a small amount of very dark urine. An Imperial Blade was sitting on a hard wooden chair watching over us like a hawk, and I strove to find out what he knew.

“When did he last eat or drink anything?” I asked.

The Blade shook his head. “I don't know. Not since I've been on duty.”

“And your shift started... when?”

“After dinner. I know he didn't eat then.”

“Right.” I nodded briskly, pretending that I knew exactly what was going on, and crossed back over to Martin's bedside. His eyelids were shut and his breathing had deepened. I noticed then that his lips were dry and cracked. Whispering “Forgive me, my friend”, I reached over to pinch the loose skin on the back of his hand. The slight pain failed to rouse him, and it took several heartbeats before the skin fell back into place.

I picked up the jug of stale water and went outside to get help. Jauffre hadn't returned to bed, but was pacing on the landing between the Emperor's bedchamber and the Grandmaster's room. The Redguard Blade who was guarding Martin's room looked extremely uncomfortable to have his Grandmaster looming over him, and I could see why. Jauffre's anxiety was contagious, and he had the most appallingly desperate expression on his face as he gasped, “How is he?”

I shrugged. “Extremely dehydrated. Beyond that, I can't tell. I need a jug of fresh drinking water and a can of hot washing water.” Jauffre made a gesture to the young Redguard who nodded and hurried down the stairs, leaving his Grandmaster and me to guard the Emperor.

It was only once we were alone that Jauffre asked me the most important question. “Do you think he will recover?”

“From the dehydration, almost certainly.” My mouth twisted into a grimace. “He was barely conscious – I couldn't even begin to assess the state of his mind. What sort of symptoms was he having?”

Jauffre sighed. “He was immensely distressed. The first day, he was angry all the time, snapping at me constantly. He said that he couldn't believe that I'd been spying on him for all these years without ever lifting a finger to help.”

“Ouch!” My face wrinkled in sympathy.

“Mmm. Well, he has a point. Several of the more, er, _unfortunate_ incidents in his life may not have happened if he'd known... But I was following his father's orders, which took priority over my own wishes. In retrospect, I think Martin could have kept his own secrets.” Jauffre shrugged, helplessly. “The second day he grew weaker, and more paranoid. He couldn't seem to follow a conversation for more than a few sentences. And he kept playing with that Talos-damned dagger of his. I can see the scars on his wrists, I know what he tried to do to himself. I couldn't leave him with a weapon, not when he is our last hope. But... taking the dagger away made something inside him break completely. He hasn't said a word since, not... anything recognisable as language.” Abruptly, the elderly Breton turned away from me to face the wall. He ran a hand over his face in frustration, and I guessed that he was attempting to compose his features.

The silence was oppressive, but I ignored the temptation to fill it with chatter. I felt guilty, remembering every warning sign I'd seen. Martin's nightmares, and intense daytime fears. His need to press himself against tree trunks and walls so no one could sneak up on him from behind. The way he couldn't stand to be touched at some times and yet was desperate for it at others. I shouldn't have ever left him. I'd thought my studies at the Arcane University were important; they were nothing compared to recovering the Amulet of Kings and keeping the heir to the throne safe so he could save Tamriel.

Whether or not people recovered from traumatic events depended on a lot of factors, including pure luck. How strong had Martin's mind been before the fall of Kvatch? There was something dark in his past, but that was well in the past... wasn't it? It suddenly struck me why Jauffre and the Blades were so afraid – a broken-minded Emperor might be able to light the Dragonfires and stop the Daedric invasion, but he would be unable to rule the Empire. Appointing a regent would be a bloodbath in itself. What if insanity ran in his blood, inherited from his mother or from further back in his father's line? If they were officially out of spare Septims...

No. On some level I knew. I'd seen him in Kvatch. Seen his air of authority, and the respect and admiration that the people there had for him. If he'd been anything other than the man he appeared to be, the survivors would not have trusted him to help them. This breakdown was simply pure, prolonged stress and shock. Made worse, no doubt, from the Blades' refusal to see him as Martin, priest of Akatosh. I guessed they couldn't help their training, their ingrained automatic deference to the Emperor. But they needed to realise that the man in question was frightened and ill, and needed time to recover before he could _be_ Emperor. I felt angry with Jauffre and the Blades for being so useless.

“Before you arrived, I was about to send a rider to Oleta,” said Jauffre, and with that my anger washed away. Oleta was the only other friend of Martin's that I knew about. “Honestly, the only thing that stopped me was thinking of what Martin would say, were he better. He would argue that the people of Kvatch needed her far more than he did, since there are many more of them than there are of him.” He gave a weak, twisted smile.

Jauffre was right – Martin _wouldn't_ be happy if we took the Chapel Healer and Master Restoration trainer away from Kvatch. If what he needed was a friend, that left me as the only qualified person – even though I was no expert healer. “Let me see what I can do. If I can't help, you can still send that rider in the morning.”

* * *

The Redguard Blade returned with a couple of women servants: one carrying a tray with a jug of cold water and a pot of tea, and the other carrying a can of hot water very carefully. I directed them into the Emperor's bedchamber, and allowed them to set the drinks down on the bedside table and pour a little of the hot water into the basin. I wondered whether Martin might feel better if he was cleaner, and set about washing his face with soap and a flannel. This elicted a moan. I dried his face and washed his hands and arms, being the only other parts of him that I could reach without removing his robe. He moaned again, and his eyelids fluttered open encouragingly, though he looked at me without recognition.

“Martin,” I said, “You need to drink some water. Let me help you sit up.”

He didn't reply, but allowed me to plump the pillows and manhandle him into a sitting position. I poured water into the cup and put it to his lips, and he drank it – hesitantly at first, and then with surprising enthusiasm. When the cup was empty, I set it down to refill it; but Martin fell unconscious before I could feed him any more. His eyelids drooped, his body slumped back against the pillows, and he let out a soft snore.

He really didn't look well. I glanced over at the Blade on duty, who shook his head. “Honestly, that's the most interaction I've seen from him in over a day. Lying awake like that for so long... I expect he's exhausted.”

I felt my mouth drop open in shock. “Hasn't he been sleeping either?”

“No. Look at his arms.”

I _had_ looked at them. I'd washed them too. He'd been digging his fingernails into his own skin, over and over. I knew it was the sort of thing that people did when they were hurting inside and wanted to distract themselves with pain. Then I realised what the Blade was saying – it wasn't self-harm (or wasn't _only_ self-harm) but a desperate attempt to stay awake. For how long had Martin been depriving himself of sleep? Two days? Three? And he was scarcely well rested before that.

I flopped down in the velvet-backed armchair next to the bed and watched my friend sleep. He dozed for somewhere around an hour, long enough for the tea to go cold, and I was almost asleep myself when Martin was seized by a violent attack of shuddering. His eyes snapped open, focusing on something in the corner of the room, invisible to me. His hands glowed pale blue, and formed shards of ice. I immediately bound his magicka with Silence, and held his hands together as he tried to wrestle with me. I saw him mouthing words, recognising “Akatosh” and “No!”. He fought so frantically that I was certain he would have been screaming if he'd been able to speak.

The fit lasted about as long as it would take to boil an egg, and then passed; leaving him collapsed across his pillows, panting like a horse after a race. I noticed for the first time that the Imperial Blade was standing alongside me, and was struck by the man's bravery. He didn't seem to have any mage abilities, yet he was beside me, ready to defend his Emperor with his life. Ready, even though the danger to his Emperor was purely imaginary... or relived.

The Imperial nodded at me in... acknowledgement? approval? and walked out, leaving the sliding door wide open. There was a brief discussion outside, followed by the clatter of heavy armour as the Redguard rushed downstairs again. I paid no attention to the noise, nor to the Blade's return, as I touched Martin's shoulder again and cast Dispel. My friend glanced at me, and his eyes widened in surprise.

“ _Alix?_ ” His voice sounded rusty from disuse, and strangely irritated. “Great. Now I'm hallucinating.”

I was so pleased to find him coherent that I answered with the first thing in my mind. “You're not hallucinating. I came back.”

“Did they send for you? Tell you I was losing my mind?” The vehemence of his reply shocked me, and there seemed to be a contradiction between the tone of his voice and the emotion in his eyes. He _sounded_ very angry, but he looked terrified. Close up, his breath smelt rank, like a two-day-old corpse.

I decided to tell him the literal truth. “Uh... No? I came back because I felt guilty leaving you here all alone.” That seemed to calm him a little, and I added, “How would the message have got to me? I've only been gone three days, and I was travelling most of that time.”

“We have pigeons,” he said, which made very little sense.

I would have asked him what he was talking about, but there was another knock at the door, and the Redguard reappeared with one of the maids from earlier. This time she was carrying a tray on which was perched a fresh pot of tea and jar of honey. I was even more impressed by the Imperial guarding Martin's room – somehow, he'd determined that the heir was particularly fond of tea. As the bedside table was rearranged, I helped Martin sit upright, and insisted that he drink another cup of water. He mumbled discontent, but acquiesced – he must have been very thirsty. I waited until the servant and junior Blade left before continuing the conversation.

“You're not losing your mind. You're having perfectly normal hauntings and relivings.”

“ _Perfectly normal?_ ” he echoed. “Dear gods.” His eyes closed, and he shuddered, violently. “It might be normal, but it doesn't _seem_ normal. When it happens, all I know is that I'm going to die.”

“Everyone dies, Martin.” I tried to speak softly.

“ _I know_!” His eyes snapped open and he glared at me. “Gods in Aetherius, I know that! I'm not an idiot! But it feels like I am _literally_ going to die any moment. I struggle to breathe, my heart pounds like it is about to break. And... and the memories cascade through my head, seeming more real than my _reality_.”

Martin gave a great gasp and folded up, like a Dwemer automaton that had run out of steam. He wrapped his arms around his knees and dropped his head onto them, as if to make himself as small as possible, then began to rock forwards and backwards. It was an odd gesture, something I hadn't seen before, but I understood it as a means of self-comfort. For a person who desperately needed a hug yet had no one they could turn to.

It felt like a long time, watching the heir in such a deep state of distress. But it couldn't have actually been more than a few minutes before he spoke again. He glanced up, eyes red-rimmed and more bloodshot than ever, and muttered, “Did they tell you what I did?”

His question demanded immediate answer. “I _heard_ that you saw daedra in your room - I'm guessing that the same thing happened just now?” He nodded. “And that you attacked two of the Blades because you were reliving being back at Kvatch.”

The sound that Martin made then was almost inhuman, a howl of absolute horror. “I almost _killed_ them. Killed the people who were here to protect me. I'm a _monster!_ ”

I knew he was mentally unwell, in shock, traumatised, whatever word you wanted to call it. But I couldn't let that one slide. “Don't be ridiculous, Martin. You're not a monster. You're a priest of Akatosh who's had a truly awful ten days.” His hair was greasy, but I brushed it with my fingers anyway. My hands stroked his forehead, cheeks, and jaw. He shivered under my touch.

When he spoke again, his voice was quieter and low-pitched. “I _thought_ it was a nightmare. I haven't dared let myself fall asleep in case it happens again.” He dug his fingernails into his arm again, tearing at the skin with the raggedy stubs. His nails really were wrecked. No one survives a week of desperate running, riding, and fighting with a perfect manicure.

“Oh, Martin.” What else could I say? “You're so tired that you're not thinking straight. You need to sleep in order to recover from your ordeal.”

He thrashed frantically on the bed. “Haven't you heard anything I've said? I mustn't. I _can't!_ ”

“I'm a mage,” I told him, matter-of-fact. “I know Ice Shield. I doubt there is anything you could do to me in your nightmares that I couldn't deflect or heal. If I stay with you, you'll be safe. And so will everyone else.”

Martin stared at me, reaching out with an unsteady hand. “Stay with me?” he begged, blinking away tears.

I held that hand. “I won't leave you unless you ask me to. I should never have left in the first place.”

The priest sighed and acquiesced, uncurling into a more normal sleeping position. His eyes darted around the room, anxious glances at each of the dark corners where daedra could be lurking.

“We'll leave the candles lit,” I said. “That way, if you wake up, you'll be able to see who's in the room with you.”

He nodded, eyes closing in exhaustion. “Sleep with me,” he mumbled.

 _What?_ I'd planned to spend the night in the armchair where I was sitting. It seemed comfortable enough. _Now_ he was asking.. Oh. He was asking me to share the ridiculously large Emperor's bed, so he didn't have to be alone. Of course he wasn't in any state to consent to anything else, if he even _liked_ men in that way. I pushed the hopeful, horny thoughts to the back of my brain where they belonged, and wriggled out of my leather trousers and outer layers. I wouldn't normally sleep in more than my underwear, but didn't want Martin to be embarrassed.

I slipped between the sheets next to him, and placed my hands on his head to cast Sinderion's Calm spell. It was a clever enough piece of magic to need a better name, I thought. Then I momentarily lost concentration as Martin's arms wrapped round my torso and pulled me towards him. He sighed into my hair, foul breath forgotten. I stroked his face and head as I worked the complicated Illusion spell, and the priest... heir... clung to me like a limpet. He was asleep before I'd even finished the spell.

Trapped in his embrace, I couldn't move if I tried. Nor did I want to. He still smelled like a frightened animal, but his humanity was beginning to reassert itself. He was a very attractive man, and this might be the only opportunity I'd ever have to lie beside him. I watched him breathe until sleep overcame me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, my dear deities. I never intended for there to be a nearly-two year gap inbetween the posting of Chapters 15 and 16! I could tell you that the story went onto an official hiatus when Elder Scrolls Online came out since I wanted to be sure to incorporate any new Lore, and that would be true. I could also tell you that I had several serious health problems, too many bereavements in close succession, and then a mad rush to get my university work finished before it was due, and that would all be true too. But all of these things are excuses rather than the real reason why this chapter has been so horribly delayed.
> 
> The real reason is that I wrote the original version of Chapter 16 in January 2014 and hated it. Martin was coming across as _weak_ rather than injured, and whatever I did, I couldn't seem to fix it. As a person with anxiety and depression who has had post-traumatic stress in the past, it seemed important to get his mental state right – and to portray him as a strong person who is struggling because of horrors in his mind. Like all of us who become sick because of trauma, or because of a bad mix of brain chemicals. None of us are weak people, we've just had horrible things happen to us.
> 
> But whenever I was in the right mental state to write about depression, I was too miserable to write. And whenever I was in the right mental state to write, the last thing I wanted was to remind myself of how bad it gets! I poked at this chapter whenever I had a chance, and could never get it right. Meta-worrying even pushed me to write a full [Statement of Intent](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/43879325), which I'll drop into the comments below because it is actually **too** long.
> 
> Since I am officially Off University right now because I'm too unwell to work on my PhD, I decided to do NaNoWriMo again. Starting on 11th November might be a bit late to finish 50,000 words, but I did, at least, achieve a final version of this chapter that I'm happy with. This is the real low point of the story, so now I'm past it you should see an update every few weeks. I can't promise any faster because _health_ and _degree_ and _running an ESO Guild_ , but there will be updates from now on! That is, if anyone's still out there to read it?

**Author's Note:**

> This is my NaNoWriMo novel. I finished November 2012 with around 53,000 words, and an entirely incomplete story. After spending half a year working on anything but _Draconis_ , I started to edit it in July 2013. Chapters are uploaded at irregular intervals depending on how much editing they need, and also depending on the state of my health.
> 
> Small snippets of dialogue are borrowed from the game _Oblivion_ , for authenticity's sake. Enormous thanks must be given to the maintainers of the Unofficial Elder Scrolls Pages (UESP) wiki, and especially to those who created CSList - the tool which extracts all raw data from the game. Before I found this tool, I had to spend hours watching videos on YouTube and typing in dialogue myself; now I simply search for it in the database.
> 
> All of the characters except Alix de Feu belong to Bethesda, although this is very much my interpretation of them.
> 
> Please let me know what you think! Comments are wonderful, but at the very least, leaving kudos lets me know that my story was appreciated. You can leave both comments and kudos without being logged into an Ao3 account.


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